


things just ain't the same (any time the hunter gets captured by the game)

by oh_no_oh_dear



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Oops this fic is literally 5 months late, Sexual Content, Trans Character, Wingfic, depression is a hell of a drug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 21:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_no_oh_dear/pseuds/oh_no_oh_dear
Summary: Everyone gets their trait dream in their teens.Well... ALMOST everyone.





	1. one: sweet dreams

**Author's Note:**

> My super mega ultra hyper late entry for the 2017 Sam Wilson Birthday Bang! I had a tough time because of Reasons, but I'm finally posting this bad boy. Thanks to the other mods, thanks to the participants, and thank you to my wonderful betas and the people who helped me!! Whew. 
> 
> Biggest HUGEST thanks to my amazing artist [stevesboyfriend](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stevesboyfriend/pseuds/Stevesboyfriend), who put up with me being a useless sack of oatmeal for months on end. Amazing artist, amazing human bean. THANK YOU!!!! 
> 
> Note: If any of the spoken English among the Wilsons seems odd, it's because it's got hints of Caribbean patois. Not 'bad' English. Okay? Okay. :D

    “Now, when you have your dream, _don’t panic_ ,” the teacher droned. “This film’s kinda old… well, really old, if I’m gonna be honest with y’all. School district cut our fuc-- our dang funding.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, grateful for the cover of darkness inside the classroom while beside him, Riley didn’t even pretend to be interested in the grainy film being shown on the projector.  
  
_HAVING YOUR TRAIT DREAM IS SOMETHING EVERY LITTLE BOY AND GIRL WAITS EAGERLY FOR--_  
  
    “Every little boy and girl, _my ass_ ,” Riley hissed under their breath to Sam. Later in life, they’d realize that they were ‘non-binary,’ but for now, Riley mostly felt ‘pissed off.’  
  
\-- _AFTERWARDS, YOU WILL NOTICE CHANGES IN YOUR BODY. THESE CHANGES CAN BE AS MINOR AS EYE COLOUR, OR A MAJOR AS--_  
  
    “If he starts talkin’ ‘bout body hair, I’m gonna jump out the window,” Sam muttered, just to make Riley shake with silent laughter.  
  
    “Don’t be mad just ‘cause you ain’t grown none yet.”  
  
    “Kiss my ass, Riley!”  
  
    “Wilson, you got somethin’ to share?” the teacher said suddenly from right beside them. Sam just barely managed not to jump.  
  
    “No, sir.”  
  
    “You sure? Seem like you got an lot to say instead of watchin’ this video.”  
  
    “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”  
  
    “ _No sir sorry sir,_ ” Riley murmured mockingly to Sam as soon as the teacher was out of earshot. Sam smacked them in the back of the head.  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
  
    “What you learn at school today, baby?”  
  
    “Ma, you mus’ ask every day?”  
  
    “Mmm. I must have somethin’ in my ear, because I _know_ Samuel Thomas Wilson don’t have attitude with his mama.” Sam exchanged a small, private smile with his mother. Even when she was lecturing him, she made sure to use his proper name. It was a little thing, but it meant a lot to him. His brother and father very rarely slipped up now, and baby Sarah seemed delighted that her big brother now had a much easier name for a near-toddler to shriek. Sam cleared his throat, knowing he had to give his daily school report as usual.  
  
    “Uhh-- we watch that stupid trait dream video today…”  
  
    “Same-same one? They ain’t got a new one yet?” Gideon mumbled around a mouthful of food. Their mother shot him an unimpressed look for eating with his mouth full, but he continued: “They tell you ‘bout how much it _hurt_ , Sammy?”  
  
    “‘Deon, stop tryin’ to scare your brother.” Paul Wilson was busy feeding the youngest, Sarah. She was more intent on getting the mashed sweet potatoes in her hair.  
  
Sam swallowed thickly, avoiding his brother’s knowing look. Gideon had gone through the change a few years ago, and Sam had been terrified by the pained noises his brother had made for hours on end. He’d come through it okay, his trait intact -- wings with the strong black and white patterns of a black banded owl instead of the soft brown spots of their great-grandfather’s wings. By now, Gideon could just about control them enough that they didn’t conjure randomly when he was embarrassed. That had been a _hilarious_ few months for Sam.  
  
    “Pop?”  
  
    “Yeah, Sammy.”  
  
    “It… does it _really_ hurt?” his voice was small and quiet, almost like when he was a little kid. He _hated_ it. He could see Gideon grinning knowingly at him, but he pushed on.  
  
“Some of the kids, they said you bleed everywhere and one kid a grade above me _broke a bone--_ ”  
  
    “Sam, don’t chat so in front of your sister,” his mother gently chided. He looked mulishly back at her, every inch the stubborn 15-year-old.  
  
    “She don’t understand what we say, ma…”  
  
    “She understand more’n you think,” Darlene chided. Sarah happily spit out her food and shrieked with glee at the mess, making her father heave a sigh.  
  
    “Sammy, we’ll talk about this before bed, ok?” Paul said distractedly.  
  
    “But--”  
  
    “Come help me with the dishes,” Gideon said suddenly, giving Sam a significant look.  
  
    “What is it?” Sam asked once they’d slipped into the kitchen, away from their parents’ listening ears. Gideon looked sombre for a few moments.  
  
    “Sorry ‘bout teasin’ you,” he said awkwardly. Sam didn’t really know how to respond to that; they didn’t say sorry, they fought until their parents _made_ them apologize.  
  
    “Uh… ok, whatever.” That was as close to ‘thanks’ as Sam could get right then.  
  
    “And Sam?”  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “It don’t hurt that much.”  
  
    “Really?”  
  
    “Yeah.” Gideon slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders before continuing. “It hurt _way_ more than I told you. You gon’ cry like a little b--”  
  
    “ _Gideon Paul Wilson._ ” Their father, always somehow aware of when his sons were about to start fighting, had appeared in the kitchen doorway with a squirming Sarah in his arms. He narrowed his eyes in a way that let Gideon know he was about to get a lecture, and Sam had to work hard not to look smug.  
  
Even seeing his big brother get a talking-to by their parents didn’t ease the block of ice that seemed to have settled in Sam’s stomach, though.  


 


	2. two: darkest before the dawn, but like, the opposite of that

Your trait dream usually came around 15 or 16. Or 17. Sometimes 18. Maybe 19 or a little older, if you were a late bloomer. Occasionally... not at all. His health teacher wasn’t super helpful when Sam stayed back to ask about it. As much as Sam pretended otherwise, stupid Gideon had really put the fear in him. He kept wondering when his dream would show up, what it would show, and if his change would hurt as much as everyone said it would.  
  
    “So I’ll get my dream soon?” Sam asked nervously.  
  
He picked at a loose thread on his sweatshirt and shifted uncomfortably as one of his sports bras pinched his skin. He couldn’t wait until his father took him shopping, like he’d promised. His dad was still a little awkward about the whole thing sometimes, but Sam knew he just wanted to make his younger son comfortable. Even if that meant going shopping with him. Paul Wilson hated shopping, but he loved his kids.  
  
Sam repressed an impatient sigh as the teacher stuffed his notes and loose pencils into a bulging leather satchel. Mr. Royhill hummed thoughtfully, frowning at the handful of papers that wouldn’t fit into his bag.  
  
    “I didn’t say that, Wilson. You got a couple years to go yet. Hell, some people don’t get ‘em until they’re already in their 20s. Nothin’ wrong with a late bloomer.”  
  
He gestured to the faded poster on the wall behind him: Captain America, saluting at them in his stupid star-spangled outfit with the words “ **I DID IT, YOU CAN TOO!** ” emblazoned underneath. Sam very carefully didn’t think about his old Captain America action figures, nor the fact that he still had old VHS copies of the terrible 1960s cartoon somewhere in his room. He’d outgrown idolizing so-called heroes.  
  
Mostly.  
  
    “That guy had some kinda little dog trait--”  
  
    “ _Chihuahua,_ ” Sam muttered before he could stop himself. The teacher gave him a narrow look before continuing.  
  
    “Chihuahua, yeah. Then after they zapped him with some laser--”  
  
    “They injected him with supersoldier serum and put him in a special machine that used Vita-Rays,” Sam interrupted again. He was a little hot in the face from embarrassment; it wasn’t at all like him to interrupt a teacher, but he couldn’t help himself for some reason right now.  
  
Mr. Royhill seemed to decide that the best course of action was to just let Sam tell the rest of the story.  
“Right, that. Serum. And his trait changed to…?”  
  
Sam felt decidedly shyer now, all but mumbling “Newfoundland.” Rogers’ story was known by just about every schoolchild in America; the change brought about by the mysterious serum had never been seen before or since. If Sam knew every detail available about Cap and the Howling Commandos because of cheesy comics and getting lost in book after book about them… well, that was his little secret, wasn’t it?  
  
    “So don’t worry-- uh-- _Sam_ ,” Mr. Royhill was saying now, having regained his footing. He grimaced apologetically at the near slip-up, and Sam smiled tightly in return. The teacher cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing, “Sorry about that. Ah, anyway… Cap got a late start in life, but he turned out a hell of a man. Just hang in there.”  
  
_Cap still had a trait, even if it was a damn chihuahua_ , Sam thought bitterly.  


* * *

  
    “Quit starin’ at me, Sam-mule,” Misty Knight said lightly. Sam jolted up from leaning against his locker, knowing he wouldn’t be able to explain this one away. He _had_ been staring.  
  
    “What’s up with you, anyway?”  
  
    “You had your change?”  
  
Misty made a face. “Rude.”  
  
    “What, we hidin’ things from each other now? ‘Cause I remember at my 4th birthday party--”  
  
    “You don’t remember _shit_!”  
  
    “--when a certain Mercedes Knight got _so excited_ ‘bout the cake that she threw up. On the cake. My Captain America cake. My Captain America _birthday_ cake. You ruined my birthday, Misty.”  
  
Misty was smiling now, used to the dramatic re-telling of Sam’s birthday party that he definitely didn’t remember. He’d learned the story from the adults who had been present though, so the story lived on in infamy. Misty and Sam had been playmates as little kids, but although they were still close friends, they mostly moved in different circles in high school.  
  
    “Why you askin’ ‘bout my change, anyway?” Misty asked. She raised an eyebrow as Sam fidgeted nervously. Sam was a lot of things, but shy wasn’t really one of them.  
  
    “Just wonderin’... Mitts, did it hurt?”  
  
Misty hummed thoughtfully, reaching up to gently touch her large afro. Sam sucked in a breath when wispy tendrils of blue undulated through the halo of hair. Octopus trait. Adaptable, terrifyingly intelligent, determined, playful. 100% Misty Knight.  
  
She bit her lip, hesitating.  
“I’m not gonna lie,” she said quietly. Sam nodded jerkily, braced for the worst.  
“I got a _hell_ of a craving for raw shellfish now, and that shit is expensive.”  
  
Sam burst out laughing, silently grateful that Misty still knew how to make him feel better.  
  
    “It hurt, Sam.” She said it plainly, no exaggeration or sugar-coating. “It hurt a _lot._ But after…” she trailed off dreamily, but the slightly unsettling sight of the tentacles made of light writhing through her hair told the tale.  
“...you just feel _right_ , y’know?”  
 

* * *

   
Riley got their dream.  
  
    “What was it about?” Sam whispered during their biology quiz. Riley shook their head, both as a refusal to talk about it, and a warning to Sam not to get caught by their (literally) eagle-eyed teacher.  
  
Sam huffed in annoyance and turned back to his paper. He knew it was a long shot; trait dreams were intensely personal and almost no one shared them with others.  
  
  
  
  
Riley got wings. They were absent from school for almost a whole week, and when they came back… wings. Huge, black wings with an iridescent green tinge whenever they erupted unbidden from their back. It would take several months of hard work to fine-tune their psychic control over the appendages. Even though the wings were technically made of light, they would still knock over anything in their way: desks, other students and on a few memorable occasions, startled teachers.  
  
    “How the hell did you get _wings_ , Ri?” Sam asked. He tried to keep the glumness out of his voice, but even though it was a beautiful Saturday and the park wasn’t too crowded, he felt shitty. Wings. Riley got wings, and Sam hadn’t even had his damn dream yet.  
  
Riley’s mother and father’s traits together shouldn’t have produced wings, of all things. How the fuck did bear and manta ray traits produce a kid with _wings_?  
  
    “Dunno. Mom says they gotta have raven somewhere in our family tree or someth-- _shit!_ ” Riley, who had been trying to take a few clumsy flaps into the air, narrowly avoided slamming into a tree trunk. Sam managed a weak chortle, even though the sight would have usually made him cry with laughter.  
  
Sam wasn’t jealous. He _wasn’t_. Just because ma had wings, and pop had wings, and stupid Gideon had wings. Baby Sarah would probably get wings when she got older, too. Sam wondered if he’d get wings like his mother, all reds and greens and splashes of golden-yellows; or sombre and dark like his grandmother; or even the unusual soft purples and pinks of his father. His father was a solid man, a community pillar… but he had endured years of taunts and ignorant comments about the colours of his wings. There had been only two other Wilsons like him on record, and although everyone knew that traits could manifest in any random way as long as there was precedent in your family… people were also stupid.  
  
_There’s nothing wrong with a late bloomer,_ Sam repeated to himself _._ And he wasn’t even that late. He was only 16 now and… okay, yeah, Sam wanted to fly more than just about anything, but he wasn’t _jealous_.  
  
He wasn’t.  
  
(He really, really was.)  


* * *

_  
6 years, 8 months.  
  
_ Darlene Wilson slowly set down her reading; some thick textbook about international communications that she had been assigned for one of her courses. Sam wasn’t sure how his mother had the energy to go to community college, on top of everything else. He’d barely had the energy to make it through his last exam and he’d been all but a zombie for the last couple months; he’d just been just working and sleeping while he visited his parents and sister for the summer.   
  
    “Somethin’ wrong, sugar?”  
  
    “I had my dream,” Sam said in a rush. His mother went still, humming thoughtfully. She and Sam’s father had given him the ‘it takes time’ and ‘we’ll love you no matter what’ speeches some time ago (especially after one tearful confession of his that he was worried he didn’t _have_ a trait.) It had been eerily similar to when Sam had told them he was a boy, almost a full decade ago.  
  
Sam was in his early twenties now, about to start his final year of college... with no sign of a trait. Gideon had gotten married a few years back, and baby Sarah was now a gangly, clever but shy pre-teen who was so strangely popular that she had invitations to sleepovers almost every weekend. Sam knew it was foolish, but he almost felt like he was lagging behind.  
  
    “I wanna congratulate you, baby… but you look so sad,” Darlene said softly. Sam sat on the couch next to her, taking some small comfort in her presence like he always did.  
  
    “Can… can I tell you about it, ma?”  
  
    “Are you sure, Sam?”  
  
    “Yeah. It felt… weird.”  


 

 _Sam stared at himself. He looked roughly the same, but somehow even more tired than usual. He raked his eyes over him (the other him?), looking for something, anything-- scales, a tail, claws. Wings. God, please, wings. But there was nothing. Nothing but a strangely serene expression on his face._ _  
__  
__And like all the other times, the inky blackness around him seemed to press against his skin, and he felt the panicked urge to go, to fly up towards the faint light above him. But how could he? He could only watch as even that faint light faded and he could see nothing. Just like all the other times.  
_  
  
  
  
  
Sam didn’t have a trait. His mother, usually somewhat reserved, hadn’t been able to control her reaction-- her own wings, bright with the greens and blues that belied her Caribbean heritage, appeared for just a moment.  
  
    “Oh, _Sammy._ ”  
  
His father had squeezed Sam’s shoulder. Then, he offered Sam some of his very best whiskey.  


* * *

   
_5 months.  
  
  
  
    “How’s the healing coming?”_ Misty’s voice crackled over the line.  Sam paused in winding the phone cord around his finger to scowl at his small collection of pain pills and antibiotics without real anger.  
  
    “Right now? Sorer ‘n I’ve ever been, to say the least. And you know how much I miss sleeping on my belly, Mitts?”  
  
_“Okay,_ but… _”_  
  
    “ _But_ I feel amazing otherwise,” Sam conceded.  
  
_“I’m happy for you, Sam. Your ma must have driven the doctor crazy while you were in recovery, askin’ if it went well, if you were talking yet--”_  
  
    “I was _unconscious_. But fine, when y’all talk about me behind my back… tell ma I’m comfortable. Even if the AC’s broken and the binder itches like a sonofabitch in this heat.”  
  
_“It’s not technically talking behind your back, she knows you know about it!”_ Misty laughed. She hummed thoughtfully, and Sam braced himself--  
  
_“Speaking of sons of bitches, when’s the last time you heard from Riley?”_ Misty had no love for Sam’s ex.  
  
    “Dunno. After they _broke up with me_ , we didn’t really keep in touch,” Sam said dryly. It had been a bad idea, and part of him wondered if the relationship, which had started out suddenly and intensely and then petered out into resentful silence, hadn’t been born out of a need to fill the void caused by not having a trait. It had been one of those things that Gideon had said was a bad idea, that Sam had ignored, that… had turned out to be a bad idea. Sam hated when his big brother was right.

 

Sam and Riley had lasted almost 5 years. And then Riley had said they were joining the Air Force, putting their trait to ‘good use.’ Sam had told them that he wasn’t sure he could wait for them. They’d looked incredibly sad when they said that they didn’t expect Sam to wait.  
  
    _“Don’t be dramatic,”_ Misty was saying now. She paused. “Okay, sorry. Sorry, that was mean. I didn’t mean it.”  
  
    “Yeah,” Sam said shortly. He cast about for a change of subject. “How’s the summer job? Kill any customers yet?”  
  
    _“Wilson, I’m working at Claire’s. This is humiliating.”_  
  
    “At least you’re the manager, right? Make a little extra money?”  
  
    _“My ass is too old to be working here, boy. It’s like pink and glitter threw up everywhere.”_  
  
    “I _like_ pink and glitter,” Sam said mildly. He knew that Misty wasn’t thrilled with her retail job, but it was one of the easier ones she’d picked up over the summer to earn some extra income for her big move in the autumn.  
  
    _“You’re such a pain in the ass. If one more 14 year old asks me ‘Uhhh is the piercing gonna, like, hurt?’ I’m gonna tackle someone with the piercing gun.”_  
  
    “I can see the headlines now. ‘Local Woman Jeopardizes Promising Law Enforcement Career, Beats Customer Over Head With Tiara.’”  
  
    _“Only if they deserve it.”_  
  
    “Why I got a feeling a _lot_ of people fall under that category?”  
  
    _“A grown-ass woman screamed at me because the $3 lip gloss we had wasn’t in the exact shade of pink she wanted.”_  
  
    “Sounds like she needs her attitude readjusted with a tiara.”  
  
    _“Aight, see? Can you tell my supervisor that?”_  
  
    “I’ll--” Sam cut himself off as the telltale _beep-beep_ of a call trying to come through sounded through the phone. “Oh, hang on. ‘Nother call.”  
  
    “Hello?” He rolled his eyes as the deep voice of his older brother reached his ears. He was probably checking in on little Sammy, armed with some condescending and ultimately useful advice (although Sam would never admit it.)  
  
“Hi ‘Deon. Hey, can I call you back? I’m on a call with Mitts...” Sam trailed off as his brother spoke over him.  
  
“What?”  
  


The room swam in front of his eyes. He couldn’t have heard that right.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll. I’ll get a flight home.”  
  
Sam hung up, forgetting that Misty was waiting on the other line. When she called back, he let it ring without answering as he stared at the faded, creased poster over his desk. Mr. Royhill had pressed the damn thing into Sam’s hands at his high school graduation; Sam still wasn’t entirely sure why. Cap proudly declaring **I DID IT, YOU CAN TOO!** had seen Sam through college until now. He wasn’t entirely ashamed to admit that the guy’s goofy grin had urged him on through a few last-minute essays and all-nighters.  
  
Sam turned away from the poster and looked outside. He couldn’t see anything except the cheery start-of-term banner hanging in the courtyard.  
  
**_WELCOME TO A BRAND NEW START!!!_  
  
  
**


	3. three: for the birds

The woman at the check-in counter had a sense of humour, clearly. Her nimble hands only showed the slightest shimmer of silver light as her fingers flew over the keyboard. But despite her impeccable uniform, she’d accented her eyes with heavy black eyeliner, artfully smudged. A not-so-subtle nod to her racoon trait, then. Some people were like that-- out and proud, fashion statements and tattoos declaring their trait to the world. Others (like Sam’s mother) felt it a more private matter. A few were ashamed and never used their traits if possible.  
  
    “We’ve got a seat available on the next flight, Mr. Wilson, but only in first class.”  
  
His credit card would have to take the blow. He didn’t have a choice. Sam managed the barest ghost of a smile as he handed his card over.  
  
    “Are you heading there to see family or…?” the friendly clerk was asking now. Sam didn’t answer for a moment, staring unseeingly at her fingers. They really were something; elegant despite being thick, and moving without pause or error over the keys.  
  
    “Funereal.” One word, barely breaking through the numb fog that had taken over his mind since Gideon had called him two days ago.  
  
    “Oh, my goodness. I’m sorry to hear that!” Her eyes, soft and brown, widened slightly. He thought he’d like to ask her out, maybe, have her clever hands on his bare skin. Some other time. When he wasn’t an emotionless zombie, medicated to the gills to keep the pain from his surgery at bay. His roommate had also pressed a half-empty bottle of Xanax into his hand after taking one look at him and hearing what had happened.  That was helping a lot.  
  
    “‘S okay,” Sam said calmly. Then, answering the question she’d never asked, he continued. “It’s my dad. He’s dead.”  
  
He saw the slightly worried looks the woman gave him as he boarded the plane an hour later, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
It was only a 6 and a half hour flight, not really enough time to fall into a deep, restful sleep. Enough time to knock back a straight whiskey, though. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, much like it had when his father--  
  
Oh, _god_ , his father--  
  
When his father had given him that drink. When Sam’s parents had realized that their middle child didn’t have a trait, never would.  
  
He couldn’t bring himself to smile when the older man next to him asked if he was going home for a vacation.  
  
    “Funereal,” Sam said softly. The man’s eyes widened and he grimaced in sympathy. Sam supposed he’d have to get used to that look from now on.  
  
He could already feel the dehydration headache pressing behind his eyes. Had he been crying? He couldn’t remember. The hours between Gideon’s phone call and now may as well have been spent in a doze, for all Sam could tell. His seat neighbour, thankfully reluctant to make conversation with the solemn-faced young man beside him, rustled the in-flight magazine. The low drone of the plane’s massive jets were a comfort, somehow. The soft _bing_ of the attendant button being pressed. Someone snoring nearby. The woman in the seat in front of him had her little overhead light on, and Sam stared at it until he saw a greenish after-image when he blinked. He lost himself in the mundane details around him, in the physical sensations of his exhausted and bruised body, because. Because he couldn’t let himself _feel_ anything else. Sam felt the crick in his neck, felt sleep pulling at him. He let it.  
  
_Sam stared at himself. He looked tired-- about as tired as he felt deep down. He raked his eyes over himself, confused. He hadn’t had this dream in a while, but… but…  
  
_

_He had wings.  
  
_ _Sam squinted hard at the wings, disconcerted that he was again looking at himself as though outside of his own body.  
  
_ _They were beautiful._ _  
_ _  
_ _He could see the magenta, violet, deep blue glowing softly in the darkness. Unlike the other times he’d had this dream, he wasn’t afraid of the blackness around him. It wasn’t cold and clammy like it had been before, but this time it was alive, charged with energy, soft like warm silk against his skin. When white mist, thick as smoke, began swirling up towards him, he didn’t feel worried. Even as his winged body disappeared from view, only the faint glow of his wings visible through the vapour, he felt safe._

 

 

* * *

  
Darlene Wilson was one of those people that believed one’s trait to be one’s own business. She didn’t judge those that flaunted theirs proudly, but it certainly wasn’t something that she did herself. Sam had only seen her lose control of her wings a few times; when she was taken completely by surprise, or completely distraught. Other times-- extreme joy or sadness, she _let_ herself be seen. She never wanted her kids to think it wasn’t okay to feel. 

  
It was too bad that Sam didn’t seem to have taken the lesson to heart.  
  
Gideon met him at the airport and pulled him into a silent, hard hug. Sam grunted and pulled away slightly, his tender chest throbbing, but his older brother murmured an apology and settled for a side-hug instead. Sam stared at the dark feathers of Gideon’s wings, which were half-folded and trembling slightly. He wasn’t trying to hide his grief, while Sam felt… nothing.  
  
    “You okay, Samuel?” Gideon asked 20 minutes later, when he carefully pulled out of his parking spot and Sam still hadn’t said a single word to him.  
  
    “Since when do you full-name me, ‘Deon?”  
  
    “Figured maybe you’d outgrown ‘Sammy.’ Least it got you to talk,” Gideon murmured. Sam shrugged listlessly and didn’t reply. Gideon sighed and then spoke again.  
   
“Hey, look… I really appreciate you comin’ all the way here on short notice--”  
  
And that’s all it took for the feeling to come slamming back into Sam.  
“Why the fuck wouldn’t I come back?”  
  
Gideon was quiet for a moment as he merged onto the highway.  
“I just meant that I know you’re busy with school and… you just had surgery and all that. That’s all I meant.”  
  
The part of Sam that knew he was just lashing out to avoid facing his own grief warned him to back down. The part of him that really, really wanted to pick a fight with his big brother was winning out.  
  
    “He was my father too, y’know. Maybe we wasn’t as _close_ as you ‘n him, but I still -- I’m still his kid.” _Even if we didn’t share a trait._ And there it was. The ugly, petty little truth: he felt like a little bit of an outsider. The only one without a wing trait, the only one without a trait at all.  
  
Gideon didn’t rise to the bait. Sam wanted to punch him for it. Then he felt ashamed for the impulse. Then he felt angry all over again.  
  
    “Sarah’s excited to see you,” his brother said, suddenly changing the topic. “Been practicing on that video game box of yours.”  
  
    “It’s a Super Ninten--” Sam started, but when he saw the small smile on his brother’s face, he snorted. Gideon had steered them into familiar territory; (usually) friendly bickering. They could do this. Feelings could come later.

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Sarah was at her friend’s house for a sleepover; the adults had decided that a night of carefree fun, sugary snacks, bad movies and shrieking with laughter until the sun rose was just what she needed. She didn’t need to be around all this raw grief. That could come later.  
  
The first thing that Sam noticed when he entered the room was his mother’s wings. The bright colours were all he could see now, her wings tucked close against her body. They emitted a soft light in the dark living room, a protective cocoon around her curled body.  
  
    “Ma, Sammy’s here,” Gideon said quietly. Darlene looked up and broke into a small smile at seeing her sons shuffling into the room, for once not fighting or shoving.  
  
    “Ma,” Sam started, finding that his throat suddenly felt dryer than it had ever been. “Ma, I’m sorry.”  
  
    “Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout, baby,” Darlene said softly. Her voice was low, rough with sleep or crying.  
  
    “I shoulda been here,” Sam grit out. If he couldn’t get mad at ‘Deon, he sure as hell was gonna get mad at himself.  
  
    “You here now, Sam. And you… your father wouldn’t want you seein’ that.”  
  
Sam didn’t know how to respond to that. Gideon had told him over the phone before, about how his father had tried to intervene in an argument that had suddenly turned violent, how he had forgone using his wings to escape, staying to try to protect some of the kids instead. How it had gone wrong. How a handful of people from his congregation had seen it happen, had likened his prone body to that of a slain angel. Wings forever visible in death, soft pink feathers marred with dark red blood. These last details hadn’t been provided by Gideon; Sam had used the Internet to look up articles. There had been pictures. Sam had numbly waited for the slow-as-molasses dialup to load each one.  
  
    “Ma, did you eat?” he said instead of telling her that he _had_ seen everything. She touched his shoulder and he could see the moment she pulled back into herself a little. Her wings flickered and disappeared from sight.  
  
    “Yes, baby. I’m a little tired, though. I’m gonna… I think I’ll go to bed. ‘Deon, you _sure_ the pullout big enough for you and Therese?”  
  
    “Yes, ma. She soon come back from dropping Sarah off and then we settle down for the night, ok?”  
  
    “All right. Don’t make too much noise now. _You_ know what I mean…”  
  
    “ _Ma!_ ” Gideon said, embarrassment evident in every line of his face.  
  
    “What? I may be old but I’m no fool. When I used to visit _my_ parents, your father and I--” she cut off sharply, and her shoulders sagged. Sam pulled gently at her hand.  
  
    “C’mon ma, let’s get some tea and go to bed.”  
  
    “Okay,” she said, and her voice was so unsure and wan that Sam almost burst into tears right there. But no. Feelings were for later.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
    “Ma sleepin’,” Gideon said quietly a half hour later. The medicinal tea that they’d brewed to soothe everyone’s nerves had sent Darlene into a fitful doze, which was better than the complete lack of sleep she’d been suffering from for the last few days.  
  
    “Good,” Sam said through a huge yawn. Maybe he could fall asleep before he started to actually come to terms with the fact that his father was dead. As he turned towards the door of his childhood room, though, his brother caught his arm.  
  
    “Oh damn-- I forgot. Jim’s in there.”  
  
    “Who the hell is Jim?”  
  
    “James? My friend from MIT, he was in town and ma and … and dad insisted he stayed here. Y’know how they get, not gon' make a family friend stay in a hotel. Me and Therese thought we’d come up and visit. Make a trip of it. And then…”  
  
_Dad got himself killed playing the hero._ Sam knew the angry thoughts were just to push away the wail of agony he felt building in him. He clung to them all the same.  
  
    “Where I gon' sleep then, man? I’m fuckin’ tired.”  
  
Gideon didn’t even jokingly chide him for his language this time, which Sam both resented and appreciated. He wanted to pretend that everything was the same, but he knew that doing that was a damn lie.  
  
    “You got Sarah’s room for a couple nights.”  
  
Sam just nodded, not even having the energy to ask which of her numerous friends she was staying with. He needed to catch this window of exhaustion or else he’d be up all night.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Jim had keen, dark eyes that shone a little too brightly in the limited light of the darkened room. He was still and tightly controlled in every movement, but Sam could sense the energy thrumming under his skin.  
  
    “You back with us?” Jim was asking now. His voice was scratchy, tired-sounding but clearly concerned. Sam slowly realized that his arm was in a firm grip, holding him down. His back was in agony, two white-hot lines of pain running along his shoulder blades and down either side of his spine. He was drenched in sweat, and the room smelled of his sharp, sour fear.  
  
“Sam, right?” Jim continued. Sam nodded, sucking in a shaking breath.  
  
    “Not to be an asshole, but what the _fuck_?” Sam rasped.  
  
    “That’s a good question, Sam.” Jim removed his hand, huffing out a quiet laugh. Now that Sam wasn’t mostly asleep, he could take in the fact that Jim was disheveled and wearing only sweatpants.  
  
    “Yeah, it is.” Sam searched for the bedside lamp in the dark, fumbling to turn it on.  
  
    “Heard you from my room. You sounded like you were having a rough time.”  
  
Sam frowned and opened his mouth to ask for more information when searing knives of pain raked down his back and he doubled over with a strangled sound. _Fuck!_ His first, panicked thought was that something had gone terribly wrong with the surgery. _Please, no._ _Not now._  
  
Jim moved as if to touch his shoulder again, but seemed unsure now, perched awkwardly beside Sam as Sam tried not to throw up. Sam was covered in a cold, clammy sweat and he couldn’t seem to stop shaking. He willed himself not to die from whatever this is, not now, not right after his mother had lost her husband in such a gruesome way.  
  
    “Jim,” Sam finally grit out, “I gotta… can you help me, man?”  
  
    “Yeah Sam, ‘course.”  
  
    “There’s… bandages in the bathroom under the sink. If we can… add to the dressings… wrap me up before the blood… gets in the mattress--”  
  
    “What blood?”  
  
Sam let out a pained woosh of air as he turned to level a disbelieving, if watery glare at Jim. “The blood on my back.”  
  
    “Sam, there’s no blood.”  
  
    “Bullshit,” Sam snapped, unable to be polite when he was in such pain. There obviously was blood, he had two huge gashes in his back--  
  
    “I’m gonna look. Can I look?” Jim sounded less scared and more steady now, and that both comforted and annoyed Sam in equal amounts. _No blood, my black ass._  
  
    “Yeah, g’wan.”  
  
Jim’s fingers were surprisingly cool against the skin peeking above his bandages, pressing and prodding at his dressings. In other circumstances, this would have been … pleasant. Maybe after he got his back stitched up and had some more painkillers, he’d ask Jim out for a drink…  
  
    “ _Oh._ ” Jim sounded softly surprised. Sam felt another surge of worry; his back must be in even worse shape than it felt if Jim was reacting in this way.  
  
“Sam. I’m not tryna overstep, but… you don’t have your trait, right?”  
  
Sam pulled away roughly, holding back a hiss as his back seared with fresh pain.  
  
    “You’re right, you’re overstepping. I’m good, just go--” Sam knew what Jim was getting at, and he didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Why the fuck _now_?  
  
    “It’s coming now,” Jim said, ignoring Sam’s irritated attempts to get rid of him. “It’s starting, I can see the light through the bandages. Damn, you got any medicine? Something to help you sleep through the change?”  
  
    “No,” Sam said. Horror was dawning on him now. Of _course_ they didn’t have the correct medicine; everyone else in his family had long gotten their trait, and Sarah wasn’t due for at least 3 more years.  
  
    “ _Shit_ ,” Jim said with feeling. “Okay. I’ll ask Mrs. Wilson if she--”  
  
    “ _No!_ Jim, please. Don’t… don’t tell ma. She’s so torn up right now, I don’t wanna heap anything more on her.”  
  
Jim was silent for a moment, considering Sam with keen eyes.  
“Okay. Okay, fine. What about Gideon?”  
  
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. The pain was increasing now, feeling like it was spreading through his chest and limbs.  
“Yeah… ‘Deon… yeah. Please.”  
  
Jim got up, moving to the door, but he paused when Sam’s voice reached him again.  
  
“And painkillers.”  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Don’t listen to ‘em,” Darlene said darkly, squeezing Sam’s hand. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but as soon as she turned away he felt the rictus smile slide right off his face. The family ‘friends’ that had just murmured loudly among themselves about Sam, especially how much his wings were strange just like his father’s, were at the small buffet happily eating the food piled on their paper plates. Sam hoped they choked.  
  
It was almost sundown when Gideon appeared at his side, Sarah clutching his hand like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. It probably was. The funereal had been a nightmare, his mother and the close family members and friends trying so hard to remain stoic while people who had barely known the Wilsons made a big show of wailing and kicking up a fuss. It had been… grotesque. Sam noticed that ‘Deon’s wings were visible and allowed himself a small, real smile. _Solidarity.  
_  
    “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s take Sarah for some ice cream.”  
  
    “What about ma?”  
  
    “We’d be doing her a favour getting out of her hair,” Gideon said, smiling a little sadly. Sam glanced back at their mother, who was drinking a glass of wine while flipping through old family albums with Jim and Therese. The last of the guests had finally trickled out and Darlene looked worn out. Her smile was real now, though; she even allowed her wings to be visible, although they were tucked primly against her sides.  
  
    “Ma, we going out for ice cream! You want anything?”  
  
    “Bring back some grape-nut ice cream for me, baby?”  
  
    “Ma, _ew_ , I not eatin’ that!” Sarah piped up. Darlene wrinkled her nose at her youngest child.  
  
    “Who says I sharin’ it? Get your own,” Darlene smirked. Sarah made an indignant sound but was unable to keep the small grin off her face as she left the house with her two older brothers.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
    “It hurt?”  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
    “Can I touch ‘em?”  
  
    “Nah.”  
  
    “Why they so late?”  
  
    “Dunno.”  
  
    “Can you fly?”  
  
    “Haven’t tried yet.”  
  
    “They look just like dad’s.”  
  
    “Uh-huh.”  
  
    “It don’t bother you?”  
  
    “What, the colour?”  
  
    “Lookin’ just like daddy did. My friend Jada said it’s weird.”  
  
Sam grimaced, lowering his ice cream cone while he pondered what to say to his 12 year old sister.  
  
    “She’s wrong,” Gideon said quietly but firmly. He was staring calmly out the window at the darkening sky, but his jaw was tight.  
  
Sarah hummed thoughtfully, sticking her spoon into the banana split that she was definitely going to be unable to finish.  
  
    “Yeah. Yeah, Jada can just _shut up._ Sam ain’t _her_ brother. I think they’re cool,” she said carefully. Sam smiled encouragingly at her, urging her to continue.  
“Uhm and… and I think daddy woulda liked ‘em too.”  
  
Sam’s voice caught in his throat a little, but he pushed on: “Rara, what colour you want for your wings when you get ‘em?”  
  
She rolled her eyes at her silly big brother. “I don’t want _wings_ , ugh.”  
  
    “What? What you want then?”  
  
    “I want gills so I can get famous for swimming to the bottom of the ocean. I gon' practice taking pictures so I can find giant squids… hey Sam, you know they can’t find live ones? Even though they so big! I'm gonna be the first. And I’ll take pictures, and sell them to National Geographic for lots of money so ma can have a big house--” Sarah took a moment to catch her breath before continuing, “-- and I can get a Tamagotchi so that _bitch_ Henrietta stops making fun of me!”  
  
    “ _Sarah_ , your language!” Gideon blurted. He’d been mostly satisfied listening to his younger siblings chatter while eating his coffee ice cream (“boring and gross,” Sarah had informed him,) but he sat up in his seat now.  
  
    “You know ma will lose her mind if you say that kinda thing, Rara,” Sam said, shocked. Sarah smiled mischievously, and it was so like their father that it made Sam’s heart hurt.  
  
    “But ‘Deon, Sammy… Henrietta has a dog trait. I’m just bein’ _accurate_.”  
  
Sam laughed so hard that his wings conjured suddenly, shoving Gideon into the corner of their booth and accidentally clotheslining a passing customer. Sarah learned a lot of interesting swear words that her brothers made her _promise_ never to repeat in front of their mother. _  
  
_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
_  
2 weeks, 1 day._

  
Jim had a really nice smile, playful and crooked. He had a PhD already despite not being that much older than Sam. He had a trait (kea parrot, he’d said with a sort of embarrassed pride.)  
  
He also had a boyfriend.  
  
Which _sucked._  
  
    “So since my flight leaves in a few hours, I was wondering…” Jim was saying now as he picked at the remains of his salad.  
  
    “Hmm?” It was all Sam could do to keep his wings under control and eat at once.  
  
    “You’re a natural flier,” Jim continued. Sam looked up, his face a little hot. He wasn’t the type to brag, but he had only been flying a few times and it was… _incredible._ He never crashed, which most beginners did, and being in the air felt more natural than walking did. If only he could get the hang of not conjuring his wings at the worst times and knocking nearby people off their feet.  
  
    “Uh… huh?”  
  
    “Well, just hear me out--”  
  
    “That’s a damn sure way to make someone feel edgy, Jim.”  
  
    “I promise it’s nothing bad.”  
  
    “Mmm. I’ll decide that, Rhodes. G’wan.”  
  
    “Okay. This is top-secret...”  
  
    “Is that why you tellin’ me in the middle of a restaurant?”  
  
Jim gave him a flat look and refused to speak until Sam held up his hands in a placating gesture.  
“ _Any_ way. I’ve been contracted to head up a new programme. Air Force.”  
  
Sam felt a funny jolt in his stomach. _Riley._ Sam hadn’t heard from them since the two of them had broken up. He wondered if they had heard about his father’s death. If they would’ve come to the funereal if they’d known. He wondered sometimes if Riley was even still alive. Sam had no idea of knowing. He tried not to think about Riley, and sometimes he even succeeded.  
  
“Wilson?”  
  
    “Sorry-- sorry. Okay, yeah… Air Force. What about it?”  
  
Jim gave him a brief, piercing look before continuing. “A specialized programme. We need fliers. _Good_ fliers.”  
  
Sam blinked.  
  
“You asking me to join?” he asked blankly. Jim nodded, his bright eyes boring into Sam’s. It was at moments like this that his trait really shone through-- the sharp intelligence and potential for mischief was impossible to miss when he looked right at you.  
  
“What kind of programme?” Sam found himself asking. He’d never considered the military at all, had in fact been a little bit bitter about the whole idea after Riley had left him, but… he felt cast adrift by the loss of his father. He was almost finished his final year of college, and his plans after that were--  
  
Were--  
  
Nothing.  
  
    “Elite team. Missions no one else can pull off. Extraction. Medic. Negotiation. And…” Jim paused, drawing the moment out, but Sam was already hooked. _Medic._ He’d always been drawn to helping people, and had even toyed with becoming a pastor like his father, like Gideon was studying to be. That hadn’t seemed like quite the right fit for him, either. But this might be.  
  
    “Spit it out, Jim! Shit!”  
  
    “Got you all excited, didn’t I? Always leave ‘em wanting more, that’s what Ton-- what my boyfriend always says.”  
  
    “Yeah, yeah. _And_ what?”  
  
    “ _And_ you’d be the first people to try out armoured wings.”  
  
Sam’s feet barely touched the ground in his haste to run home and use his mother’s phone to call the airline and change his ticket.  


 


	4. four: on your left

_10 years, 4 months.  
_  
  
    “You _sure_ you got everything, Rara?” Sam asked, surveying the cardboard boxes piled haphazardly in her tiny apartment.   
  
    “Nobody call me Rara no more, _Sammy,_ ” she shot back without any real heat. He leaned down and planted a kiss on her forehead, earning a half-hearted shove in return. Sarah Wilson was still in the “way too cool, and also mortified by family members” stage of her early twenties. It was bad enough that her big brother lived in the same city where she was pursuing her Masters in Ocean Science, but at least he’d promised not to drop by unannounced. In return, she’d promised to at least see him every few weeks for dinner.  
  
    “ _I_ call you Rara, Rara,” Sam said teasingly. She tolerated his uncoolness for a little while longer before sending him off with a warm goodbye hug and a promise to call him the next day. She had late lunch plans with friends ( _How the hell did she already have friends here?_ ) and Sam needed to have an early night anyway; he had work the next day.   
  
He couldn’t have had any idea that his morning run would be interrupted by a tall man with a bounding run, whose smug “on your left” would turn Sam’s damn world upside down.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
_1 week, 6 days._  
  
Steve Rogers was painfully earnest, protective of those he cared for, hardworking, and had a head of shaggy hair that only behaved when he used some kind of product in it. It was kinda easy to see his trait once you got to know him, actually; while he was every inch the larger-than-life hero Sam had read about growing up, that really only extended to the battlefield. When he was at ease, Rogers flopped all over couches, his friends, the nearest comfortable rug. He ate any and everything without complaint. He was really interested in everything you had to say, and seemed to have a knack for knowing what you weren’t saying, too. It was kind of an annoying habit.   
  
He was also an insufferable smartass underneath all the shining earnestness, too. Sam liked that.

  
  
    “What’d you say it was again?” Steve asked, laying on his back. He held his new tablet above his face, and Sam was torn between listening for the kettle, and waiting for the inevitable moment when Steve dropped the damn thing on his face. If he wasn’t fighting, the man was a klutz.   
  
    “What’s what?”   
  
    “Your wings?”   
  
    “Uh… ma said it’s probably violet-backed starling,” Sam mumbled, feeling strangely bashful. His mother had been overjoyed with the news a few years ago; after scouring the Wilson family tree and doing some rigorous Internet research, she’d called to tell her middle child the good news.   
  
_* * * *_ _  
  
    “Okay, are you ready?” _ _  
_ _  
_ _“I_ **_been_ ** _ready, ma.” Sam grinned although his heart was hammering away in his chest. He’d come to some kind of bitter closure about his wings, never having had the time to do much research himself. He’d resigned himself to the snickers, the raised eyebrows at the colours, knowing that it was the same kind of thing that his own father must have endured back in the day. Never mind that he flew higher and further than a lot of the Falcon team, aided though they all were by their high-tech wing armour. He still felt people smothering laughter when they saw, so he kept the wings out of sight most of the time._ _  
_ _  
_ _But his ma had never given up, knowing that her son would never admit how much he wanted this._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Okay! I did some diggin’ and… I think you’re a, whatsit…” there was a rustle of paper and Sam dug his nails into his palm in order not to snap at his mother to hurry up already._ _  
_ _  
“A… violet-backed starling. You know records from back then ain’t great, but the colour’s unusual enough that they made a note of it, and I think it matches. Your daddy woulda been so excited, Sammy.” _ _  
_   
Sam’s voice was a little choked up when he’d thanked his mother. She hadn’t pretended she wasn’t crying.   


* * * *  
  
    “Violent…”  
  
    “ _Violet_ , Steve. As in the colour.”  
  
    “Oh, okay, that makes a lot more sense.” Sam could hear the shit-eating grin in Steve’s voice and rolled his eyes.  
  
    “Okay, so the googles says … social… good at mimicking …”  
  
    “ _The googles,_ ” Sam repeated in an almost pitch-perfect imitation of Steve. They both snorted with laughter and Steve finally sat up, moving to put down his tablet and help Sam finish making their sandwiches. The kettle’s piercing whistle died away, and with it their last trace of mirth. It was time to get back to work. Work that they were both trying like hell to avoid.   
  
* * * *  
  
Steve pushed away his half-eaten sandwich, which in and of itself was a bad sign; he never wasted food. His shoulders were slumped and the phrase ‘hangdog expression’ had never been so apt before. The reason for his glum demeanour lay spread on the floor between himself and Sam: all the files that they’d gathered on the Winter Soldier. There were a lot of pictures. Pictures that made Sam want to throw up and then drink himself to sleep, which was quite a feat considering the supremely fucked-up shit he’d seen during the Falcon programme.  
  
    “Let’s start at the beginning,” Sam said tiredly. He scooted across the carpet to sit nearer to Steve and tapped the cover of the first beige folder, and Steve nodded reluctantly. His body language 100% screamed ‘sad puppy’ and Sam knew his own wings would have been drooping dejectedly, had they been visible at the moment. But they had to do this. They had to find Barnes-- whether to help him or stop him was yet to be seen.  
  
“Tell me ‘bout him.”  
  
Steve cleared his throat and flipped open the file, only flinching slightly at the old black-and-white photo of his best friend.   
  
    “About Bucky, or about the Soldier?”  
  
    “Bucky. Like, first of all-- what the fuck kinda name is ‘Bucky’?” Steve barked out a sudden laugh and nudged Sam with his elbow. Sam knew the answer, of course; he could recite the biographies of the Howling Commandos from heart to this day. But urging Steve to talk about the good times before he moved on to the fucked up stuff was probably a good tactic.  
  
    “It was short his middle name, ‘Buchanan,’” Steve said. Sam raised an elegant eyebrow.  
  
    “Then shouldn’t it be pronounced ‘Bewkee’?”  
  
    “Smartass.”  
  
They stayed up past midnight, getting quieter and quieter as they got further into the files and realizing the enormity of the task ahead of them. Steve turned in first, his whole aura one of simmering anger and defeat, but Sam knew that in the morning he’d be ready to go again. Steve Rogers never gave up.  
  
  
* * * *  
  
_Sam heard the wind screaming in his ears, almost drowning out the sounds of explosions, the screech of metal, the gunfire and panicked yelling below him. The Soldier had already dispatched with Steve, sending his onetime best friend careening off the edge of the Helicarrier without there being so much as a flicker of recognition in the Soldier’s unsettling yellow eyes._

 _  
_ _“Steve!” Sam tried the comms again, only getting a burst of static in reply. The heat of his wing armour against his back was worrying; Sam suspected that it had been badly damaged in the fight, but he didn’t have even a second to check it over. He just had to hope that it didn’t explode. His ma would never forgive Sam for coming home (relatively) whole from his time in the Air Force, just for him to bite the dust because he was trying to keep up with freakin’ Captain America. Come to think of it, his ma would never forgive Cap himself. Assuming Steve wasn’t a red, white and blue smear on the ground by now, that is._ Fuck this _, Sam thought viciously, turning to face his opponent.  
  
_ Take down the Soldier, find Steve _. He could do that. He had to._ _  
_ _  
_ _The Soldier, meanwhile, had turned his full attention on Sam now. Before he took to the air, Sam could see, could feel the Soldier’s gaze shift to him. He realized how close they were (_ too close, too close _) when he could see the man’s pupils narrow to slits, laser-like on Sam. Sam knew the look of a predator that had found something to toy with._ _  
_ _  
_ Nope. _  
_ _  
_ _Sam quickly reevaluated his goals.  
  
_ Get away from the Soldier. Find Steve. _  
  
Sam turned sharply away, smoothly taking to the air, but that split second of eye contact had been too much time. When the first wire snagged his wing armour, Sam felt a jolt of fear like he’d never known. Not even during the most dangerous, secretive missions, the ones only he could do, the ones so high in the mountains that the other Falcons would pass out if they accompanied him. The missions that needed silence so complete that the slightest cough or softest whir of machinery would trigger an alarm that would get everyone, including the hostages, killed. Not even swooping and dodging through gunfire and blasts from weapons the likes of which none of them had ever seen. This fear was a shock of cold lightning racing under his skin. This -- having his wings, his trait, torn from him -- this was a nightmare that hadn’t even occurred to him on his worst nights. H  
  
e felt a sharp jerk somewhere near his spine and _ no no no no! Get it together, pull in your wings, pull in-- _  
_ _  
_ _Sam felt a searing flash of pain tear through his back as the Soldier ripped off his wing armour. Once again, Sam had hesitated too long. The Soldier’s laughter was breathless, high-pitched with adrenaline and triumph as he bore down on Sam with a sharp-toothed smile._   
  
    “Sam!”   
  
Sam looked around wildly as he pressed his back against the wall behind him, surprisingly cool against his skin. His back was still throbbing faintly, but it was nothing compared to the agony from the Helicarrier.   
  
“Sam,” Steve said again, moving cautiously from his defensive crouch by the door. “You’re okay, Sam. You’re safe.”   
  
    “I-- my wings--” Sam croaked, still groggy and panicked from his nightmare.   
  
    “Still there,” Steve replied. Sam noticed now that the soft pinkish glow in the room was, in fact, coming from his wings.   
“I oughta know,” Steve continued. “They just knocked me on my ass.”   
  
    “Sorry.”   
  
Steve waved aside the apology. “You were sleeping, you couldn’t help it.” He hesitated as he sat gingerly on the bed beside Sam.  
  
“Bad dream?”   
  
    “What did you say his trait was? Barnes? What was he?” Sam blurted, avoiding Steve’s question. Steve was silent for a long moment; Sam was just about to give up when he spoke again.   
  
    “Cat.”   
  
Sam nodded. His wings suddenly vanished as he mentally pulled himself together, rolling himself out of bed and only stumbling a little because he was still tangled up in the covers. Steve followed him quietly to the living room and watched morosely as Sam scrabbled through the scattered files on the ground. He was looking for one in particular.   
  
Once Sam knew what to look for, it was easy to see Barnes’ trait; the smirk had a distinctly feline tinge of smugness to it, and his sharp features promised mischief of a different type entirely from the tiny blond grinning next to him. Steve flopped heavily onto the carpet beside Sam. Seeing the old picture of him and his best friend in Sam’s hand, he let out a heavy sigh. Sam could relate. He very carefully didn’t think of Riley.   
  
    “Cat. Okay, I get it. But… Steve, think. No damn way is that still true. Whoever we fought on the Helicarrier--”   
  
    “It was Bucky. I _know_ it was.”   
  
    “Yeah, okay. The same way you’re still exactly who you were in this picture, right?” Sam asked flatly, tapping his finger on the photograph.   
  
Steve set his jaw stubbornly, but Sam gave him a few moments to catch up. When Steve’s eyes widened, Sam knew he’d had his lightbulb moment.   
  
    “You think… you think his trait changed too? Because of the… y’know?”   
  
    “The torture, experimentation, brainwashing thing?” Sam finished. Steve scowled at him, but Sam wasn’t awake enough for tact.  
  
“Yeah, I think that’d do it.”   
  
    “What do we do?” Steve’s voice was soft, unsure. It was a mark of how shaken he was that he hadn’t immediately come up with some life-threatening plan to go after his friend.   
  
    “I know a guy,” Sam said thoughtfully. As he picked up his phone from the coffee table, he corrected himself: “Not a guy . But a friend.”  



	5. five: misty

Misty Knight was beautiful in a flattering wine-red leather jacket with lipstick to match. Her twists were pulled back from her face, but one could still make out the faint blue glow of her trait weaving in and out of her thick curls. Sam, however, was busy staring at her eyes.  
  
    “When’d that happen?” he asked, gesturing at her face. She stirred yet more sugar into her coffee, watching him impassively before answering.  
  
    “ _Hi, Misty, it’s been so long, Misty, I’m sorry for calling you at 5 in the morning after not answering your texts for months, Misty,_ ” she mocked.  
  
“Also, you still going around pointing out people’s traits like you ain’t got no home training?”  
  
Sam grinned a little wanly. She was right; he’d been a little distant since he had gotten promoted at work. And the last few weeks, since he’d met Steve? _Well._   
  
    “Nah, just with you. They’re nice,” he grinned. Misty rolled her eyes, but allowed herself a small smile. Her eyes had lightened to a honey brown, except for a horizontal band of dark mahogany across the centre that had remained untouched. It was as unsettling as it was beautiful.   
  
    “Grew into my trait, I guess. Moving on. I know I’m hot, but I got work in 45 minutes, Wilson. Why the sudden breakfast date?”  
  
Sam shook himself and got back to business.   
“Okay, this has gotta be between you and me, Misty.”  
  
    “If it’s a matter of national security, no it ain’t.”  
  
    “Mitts, come _on._ ”  
  
    “I hate when you call me that.”  
  
    “Nah, you don’t.” Sam leaned in closer now, hiding his satisfaction. Misty was acting aloof, but he’d seen the telltale frisson of interest making the tendrils of light in her hair undulate slightly. He had her hooked.   
“What if I told you it involved a national icon?”  
  
    “Who, Captain America?”  
  
    “ _Shhhh sh sh_. Damn, keep your voice down!” Sam hissed, almost spilling his coffee on himself as he leaned even further towards her. “How’d you know?”  
  
    “You kidding, Sam? It was all over TV and the Internet, what you think? Plus, I’d know that ass anywhere, fancy wings or nah.”  
  
Sam mentally filed _that_ away for later.   
  
    “Ooookay. Anyway, I know you’re a trait behaviourist for the FBI, and--”  
    
    “The best.”  
  
    “Huh?”  
  
    “I’m their #1 analyst, Wilson. Put some respect on my name.”  
  
Sam inclined his head, unable to keep a soft laugh from escaping.  
“You’re right. So, Special Agent Knight… can I pick your brain?”  
  
Misty hummed her acquiescence, even though she looked pointedly at her watch.   
  
    “What do you know about forced trait changes?” Sam asked under his breath. Misty flinched slightly and matched Sam’s furtive body language. That sort of thing was taboo, the horror of such intimate violence being too much to even discuss for most.  
  
    “Like Rogers? Started as chihuahua, ended up as whatever the hell he is now--”  
  
    “Newfoundland,” Sam said. He had a momentary flashback to himself in highschool talking to his teacher. Scared that he didn’t have a trait at all. If only he’d known…  
  
    “You mean somethin’ like that?” Misty asked, biting her lower lip. Sam shook his head. It was different.  
  
    “Nah, Cap volunteered for that. He knew there was likely gonna be a trait change. But it’s … still kinda the same trait family, right? Dog to bigger dog.”  
  
Misty looked a little ill as she swiftly put the pieces together, cunning as she always was.   
“Sam, are you talking about someone _changing traits_? Against their will?”  
  
Sam nodded silently. He felt as queasy as Misty looked.  
  
“Who?” Misty whispered.  
  
Sam hesitated. He knew he could trust his friend, but this was huge. And, technically, illegal.   
  
    “Do you know who the Winter Soldier is?”  


Misty called her supervisor to let her know she'd need the day off.  



	6. six: bird & fox

_2 years, 7 months, 13 days.  
  
  
  
_ Sam rolled his shoulders and willed his body language into something that said ‘I’m relaxed, and not being trailed by a man that nearly killed me last time we were face to face.’ He had a sick feeling in his gut that it was because Barnes was _letting_ Sam know that he was following him. After all, he had outfoxed his pursuers at every turn.  
  
_Heh. Outfoxed._  
  
Sam mentally chided himself. This was no time for jokes, even if it was pretty damn funny. Who knew how long Barnes had been slinking along after Sam while he’d thought he’d been the one hunting Barnes? Sure, Sam was observant and a quick thinker. And yeah, he was surprisingly good at changing his manner just enough so that he could pass through the same place multiple times without raising suspicions. But Barnes? If anything Steve had told him had been true, Barnes had been skilled at stealth and tracking. And that was _before_ the knockoff serum and whatever else they did to the guy had twisted his trait into what it was now.  
  
Sam adjusted his sunglasses and picked at a non-existent thread on his crisp blazer. He was dressed more sharply than usual, because today he was playing the role of the rich douchebag.  
  
    “Sir?” the front desk clerk murmured politely. Sam flashed a quick, cold smile.  
  
    “I have a reservation,” he said. He let a little curl of an accent colour his words; not enough to be really obvious, but enough to mark him as Not American.  
“Under the name 'Bailey.'” His sister would be tickled that he’d used her favourite booze as a cover name. She’d be far less amused to know that he was undercover trying to track Captain America’s murderous friend.  
  
    “Bailey… Bailey… I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t see any Bailey here,” the clerk was saying apologetically now.  
  
Sam let out a sound somewhere between exasperation and disgust. He hated being a jerk to people, but he had to play the part.  
  
    “Are you sure? I’m quite certain I booked a suite _weeks_ ago,” Sam sighed, fishing around his wallet for the credit card that Steve had insisted on taking out for their travels. The spending limit was absolutely ludicrous, so Sam wasn’t worried about the cost of a room in this fancy hotel. He just needed somewhere close to Barnes’ last sighting, and this place fit the bill.  
  
    “He’s with me,” a low voice came from Sam’s right. Sam’s jaw clenched with the effort of not tensing up or, god forbid, his wings appearing because he was ready for a fight. It looked like Barnes had found him.  
  
The clerk lit up immediately, greeting Barnes in French as he tapped at his keyboard.  
  
Sam remembered just enough French 101 to catch ‘welcome’ and something about Barnes’ order being… good? Arriving? Something. Sam dearly wished he’d paid closer attention in his French class, but damn if that Udaku guy the row ahead of him hadn’t had most of his attention. Now, two semesters of shameless flirting instead of doing his damn assignments was going to get Sam killed by the Winter Soldier. Or Barnes. Or whoever the fuck he was now.  
  
The clerk switched back to English now, smiling much more warmly at Sam.  
    “My apologies, sir! Mr. Wilson had reserved the large suite in anticipation of your arrival, but I was not aware of your surname.”  
  
    “Sorry about that. We’re kinda... private,” Barnes said quietly. Then he curled his left arm around Sam, resting a gloved hand lightly on his hip. Not exactly threatening, but urging Sam to stay. Sam’s head was spinning. _Mr. Wilson? What the entire fuck?_ _  
_ _  
_ The clerk smiled even broadly before tapping his nose in a decidedly cheeky gesture.  
  
    “Can you check if any mail or packages have come in for me?” Barnes asked, and _what a dickhead._ Sam could hear the cloying sweetness, somewhere between a growl and a purr. The sarcasm was lurking just below that voice. After the clerk nodded and hurried to check the mailboxes, Barnes moved his hand away.  
  
“Knew you were smart, Wilson. Good idea to go along with it.”  
  
    “Yeah, well. I Figured a gunfight in the middle of the lobby wasn’t exactly stealthy,” Sam said dryly, turning to look at Barnes. He had filled out a little; his face had lost some of gauntness but none of its sharpness. His eyes were green, not the unsettling yellow they’d been the last time they had been face-to-face. Contacts, then. He smiled in a way that might have been disarming to some, but was just a little too sharp to really be friendly. Sam scowled. During his misty-eyed reminiscing, Steve had left out the part where Barnes was a fucking asshole.  
  
“Why ‘Wilson’?” Sam asked.  
  
    “I got a sense of humour.”  
  
    “You got a _shit_ sense of humour.”  
  
    “Sirs? Is, ah… is there anything else you’ll be needing?” The clerk was back, looking mildly alarmed at the way that the two men were practically bristling at each other. Barnes started oozing charm again, and Sam played along. Just for now. Just until he could talk to Barnes, hopefully not get murdered, and let Steve know that his bestie was not only hale and hearty, but living off of expensive hors d'oeuvres and complimentary wine. _Fucking ridiculous.  
  
_     “No, no. We’re gonna turn in for the evening, I think. Thomas gets cranky when he’s jetlagged… don’t you, _honey_ ?” Sam felt like he’d been chucked into an icy lake without warning. Barnes has used his middle name, a not-so-subtle ‘I know everything about you, Sam Wilson,’ and called him _honey_. Barnes leaned in, his warm breath tickling the shell of Sam’s ear. Sam did not jump a little. He didn’t.

    “Keep playing along.”  
  
    “Of course, _sugar,_ ” Sam retorted, just loud enough for the clerk to hear. This was ludicrous. Not for the first time, Sam chided himself on not ignoring Steve’s ‘on your left’ bullshit and jogging his happy ass on home 3 years ago.  
  
    “I’ll have some champagne sent up, sirs,” the clerk said smoothly. “And congratulations on your engagement!”  
  
Sam had just enough self-control to wait until the elevator doors had closed before whirling on Barnes with a well-placed “ _What the FUCK?!”_  
  
* * * *  
  
The room was nice.  
  
Okay, _fine._ The room was stunning. The bed (singular, of course) was big and plush, wide enough to easily fit 4 or 6 adults, the decor was warm and tasteful, and the view was spectacular. If they’d actually been a couple on vacation, the twinkling lights in the city below would have been really goddamn romantic.  
  
On his third glass of champagne, Sam realized that he hadn’t eaten anything and the champagne was going right to his damn head. Sam was getting drunk in a room with a deadly assassin. Well, shit. Steve would be pretty disappointed if his best friend killed his other best friend.  
  
    “‘M not gonna kill you,” Barnes said around a mouthful of crackers and cheese that smelled so bad that it _had_ to be wildly expensive.  
  
    “Whuh?”  
  
    “Do you know that you talk to yourself a lot?” Barnes said. He at least had the grace to stifle a loud belch into his fist, but it didn’t make Sam wrinkle his nose any less.  
“You’re cute when you do that.”  
  
    “Shut the fuck up, Barnes.” Sam set down his champagne flute carefully and settled cross-legged on the bed, which _ohhh jesus, was the most comfortable thing he’d put his ass on, ever._  
  
    “Call me Bucky,” Barnes said, stretching his arms over his head. An alarming amount of pops and crunches came from his body, but he just grunted with satisfaction.  
  
Sam struggled with a snappy retort, but he ultimately decided he wanted to get this over with. He was going to get to the bottom of this, and champagne buzz or not, he had to get Barnes-- Bucky-- _whoever_ \-- to come back with him. Or at least get him to stay put until Steve could hightail it to find them.  
  
“What you been doing holed up in fancy hotels, anyway?”  
  
Barnes got to his feet and slinked to the bathroom. There really was no other word for the way that he moved when he wasn’t playing a role; he _slinked_. Over the sound of water rushing from the tap, he said loudly, “Ahh, you know. Sightseeing. Waiting around for you to catch up. Killing assholes.”  
  
Sam stiffened and let his fingers skim the object in his pocket. The folding knife was still there. Good. His wings wouldn’t be great for combat in the close quarters of a hotel room, but--  
  
    “So you were, what? Fucking with me?” Sam asked. He had to keep Barnes distracted long enough to get in the first strike. If he was still killing people, then he was still dangerous. Sam felt his heart sink. He hadn’t wanted it to end like this.   
  
    “What? No, you caught me like… 3, 4 times now.” Bucky emerged from the bathroom, looking entirely too cozy in pyjama bottoms and a sloppy ponytail. He’d taken out his green contacts. Was he underestimating Sam so much that he was going to do this in his jim-jams? _Really_? _Fuck this guy, for real._  
  
    “The fuck you mean, _caught you_?”  
  
Barnes slumped onto the bed, wriggling to make himself more comfortable. He raised an eyebrow at Sam.  
  
“Don’t you wanna change? Those jeans look way too tight to be comfortable.” He caught his lower lip between his too-sharp teeth and gave Sam an entirely unnecessary sultry look. Even the sharp yellow eyes darkened, half-lidded in a blatant ‘come-hither’ look. Sam was unimpressed. Well. Mostly.  
  
    “Answer the question, Barnes.”  
  
Bucky let out a petulant sigh. “I told you, call me _Bucky_ … fine, fine. Paris, 3 weeks ago. I was the blond who flirted with you in the bookstore.”  
  
Sam looked hard at Barnes now, trying to see it. Maybe something about the jaw? But that man had been German, with dark brown eyes. He’d also been quiet and shy in a way Sam couldn’t imagine Barnes pulling off.  
  
    “The hell you were.”  
  
    “You were wearing a red henley, Ray Bans, those same tight  jeans and motorcycle boots.”  
  
    “Wh--”  
  
    “You were trying to read the back of an Octavia Butler novel in French, and I asked if you had any good sci-fi recommendations.”  
  
    “ _Okay_ , shit. Why do you even care what I was wearing, anyway?”  
  
Barnes gave him an incredulous look. “Being observant comes in handy when you’re a goddamn assassin, Wilson.” Sam shrugged, secretly pleased that he hadn’t shown his tension. Two could play this faux-nonchalance game.  
  
“And you looked sexy, so it’s easy to remember,” Barnes added matter-of-factly.  
  
    “ _What?_ ”  
  
    “17 days ago. I was the redhead who needed directions to the museum.”  
  
Sam just stared. Barnes had been much paler then. He’d even had _freckles._  
  
    “11 days ago. I was the goth-lookin’ dude who offered to give you head in the back of the movie theatre.” Sam felt his face get hot at the memory; mostly because he’d almost accepted.  Bucky smirked, his next words coming out in a low purr.  
  
“Thought you’d made me, for sure. I was barely tryin’ that time. Kinda _wanted_ to get caught.”  
  
    “What the fuck, Barnes. You don’t-- why you keep pretending to flirt with me, man? If you just needed to ‘keep an eye’ or whatever.” Sam felt a little angry, a little embarrassed; he didn’t like being played like that. Bucky, for his part, looked a little taken aback.   
  
    “Pretending?”  
  
Sam pursed his lips and firmly ignored the hungry way that Bucky’s eyes darted to his mouth.  
  
    “Wait. Wilson, I wasn’t…”  
  
    “Who you been killing, Barnes?” Sam asked abruptly. He was sobering up now, and 100% done with Barnes trying to toy with him.  
  
Bucky’s eyes did that _thing_ , where the pupils narrowed into slits again. Like a cat that had just spotted helpless prey. Or, well. Not a cat. A fox. Sam leaned away, uneasy. The last time he’d seen that, he’d damn near died.  
  
    “Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said tightly.  
  
    “Fucking _don’t worry about it,_ ” Sam said in a near dead-accurate imitation. Barnes’ sneer softened in surprise and he blinked a few times.  
  
    “Hey, whoa, no. Haven’t been killing _people_ ,” he said, a pleading edge to his voice that Sam didn’t trust for a second. This man was a master of slipping in and out of disguise.  
  
    “You literally said you were killing people.”  
  
    “Technically, I didn’t.”  
  
    “ _Technically,_ I’m 5 seconds await from ending this shit. Talk.”  
  
    “I haven’t been killing people, Sam, I swear.” Bucky’s eyes were huge, unsettling and trained on Sam just like the Soldier’s had been. But those eyes had been empty and thinking only of the hunt. Here, now, Bucky looked… scared?  
  
    “What you been killing, then? I wasn’t kidding about the 5 seconds, by the way. Countdown starts now.”  
  
    “I’m going after Hydra. They’re not _people_ , they’re _garbage._ ”  
  
* * * *  
  
Sam found that he needed a fourth and then fifth glass of that really excellent champagne after Bucky showed him the pilfered Hydra files on his laptop. Some were already highlighted in dark red, the word “TERMINATED” typed at the top with a vicious glee that would have been unsettling if it hadn’t been _fucking Hydra._  
  
Bucky’s breath was hot against the side of Sam’s neck. He didn’t technically _need_ to stand so close to see the screen, but now that they weren’t going to fight to the death, Sam wasn’t averse to a little human contact. He was a little touch-starved and a lot tipsy, sue him.  
  
    “I already got these fuckers in Venice,” Bucky murmured. Sam nodded sleepily, tapping the arrow key to go to the next one. He shot up in his seat and Bucky let out a surprised yelp when Sam’s wings suddenly appeared, flinging him on his ass without warning.  
  
    “They have _kids._ ” Sam’s words were kind of slurred, but the anger was clear and sharp. He’d kill the bastards himself if he had to.  
  
    “That’s why I stopped bullshitting today,” Bucky said as he got to his feet. His usual grace wasn’t there; he’d truly been taken off-balance by Sam’s wings.  
“I’m going after them next. Wanted to know if you’d help.”  
  
    “Why didn’t you need my help for the other times?”  
  
    “I did.”  
  
    “So…”  
  
    “Wanted to keep you safe.”  
  
    “You’re full of shit.”  
  
    “Sam, I’m telling the truth.”  
  
    “Sure.”  
  
    “I mean, tell that to the 2 snipers that were trailing you until last week. They’re not much for conversation since I tore out their throats, but.”  
  
    “Barnes, what the _fuck?”_  
  
    “And here you are safe and sound, huh?”  
  
Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did troublesome white boys seem drawn to him?  
  
    “What time we gotta check out?”  
  
Bucky’s smile was a small, pleased thing.  
  
    “Not too early, we gotta sleep off the hangover.”  
  
    “Oh, good.”  
  
    “Hey, can I touch the wings?”  
  
    “ _No._ ”  
  
* * * *   


So.  
  
Apparently Bucky Barnes liked being the big spoon.  
  
    “Steve okay?”  
  
    “Mmmnghhh.”  
  
    “I know he’s… he’s not dead. I made sure-- but he’s okay, right?”  
  
    “Yes. Now shut up.”  
  
    “Why?”  
  
    “Barnes. Bucky. It’s 4. In the mornin’.”  
  
    “Sorry. I can’t sleep.”  
  
    “Die.”  
  
Bucky just huffed a laugh and pulled Sam closer to him and... Sam wasn’t sure if it was the pleasant buzz still lingering from the bottle and a half of champagne that they’d put away, but he was damn comfortable. So him cuddling with Bucky “I Tore A Man’s Throat Out With My Teeth” Barnes would go in the ‘to deal with later’ pile.  
  
“Steve’s fine. Misses you like crazy. Worried.”  
  
    “Yeah. I’m… me too.”  
  
    “Mm.”  
  
Bucky squeezed him a little, making Sam let out a small squeak of outrage and subside into sleepy grumbling. But neither of them made a move to separate their bodies, and Sam was almost asleep again when Bucky murmured something against his skin. It sounded like  _Thank you_ , but Sam was already out before he could even begin to ask what Bucky meant.

 


	7. seven: fingers crossed

_4 months, 3 weeks, 4 days.  
  
  
__  
_  
It took a lot of cajoling to convince Steve not to fly a quinjet to their location and drag them both back by their ears to the States. His disappointed face was only slightly less effective over video chat than it was in real life, but Sam was adamant. If there were still Hydra cells active around them, they had a responsibility to flush them out and exterminate them.  
  
Sam moved to leave the room and give Steve some privacy when Bucky settled in the chair next to him, but Bucky grabbed his hand.  
“Stay. Please.”  
  
Steve’s eyes darted to their hands and then he positively _lit up_.  
  
    “ _Are you two-- okay, not my business-- but_ Buck _, I didn’t know you were-- not that there’s anything wrong with-- I mean,_ I’m _the same-- not that it matters, I uh--_ ”  
  
    “Nice to see you too, Rogers,” Bucky drawled. Steve’s face came over all sappy and god, Sam _really_ felt like he was intruding, but Bucky’s grip on his hand was insistent. So Sam flopped in the chair and let Steve Rogers emote at them for a full three hours, reminiscing with Bucky, espousing Sam’s virtues to Bucky, trying sneakily to get an exact location out of them (nope,) stumbling over his words as he shyly told them he liked dames _and_ fellas (“The term is ‘bisexual’ and I _know_ you know that, Steve.”) and that the Avengers were keeping him busy 24/7 or else he’d be there with them in a heartbeat.  
  
    “You don’t even know where we are,” Bucky said, yawning widely. It was almost midnight where they were and they had an early start the next day.  
  
_“You’re in Europe,”_ Steve said stubbornly. _“Bet I could find you.”_  
  
    “Sure you can, buddy. Hey, we’re gonna turn in. I’m getting pretty tired.”  
  
_“_ We _, huh?”_  
  
Sam groaned. “Will you grow up?”  
  
_“I’d say I grew up plenty.”_  
  
    “Just because you put on muscles don’t mean you’re not still _childish_.”  
  
_“Miss you too, Sam. Bucky… I… it’s good to see you. Really good.”_  
  
    “You’re getting me all choked up here,” Bucky muttered, his smile a little watery. Steve didn’t try to hide his emotions, settling for quickly passing his hand over his eyes. Sam felt a little verklempt himself.  
  
_“Oh, one more thing,”_ Steve said, urgency in his voice.  
  
    “What is it?” Sam asked. Bucky squeezed his hand, tension thrumming through his body.  
  
_“Make sure you two use condoms. Bye!”_ Steve ended the call, cackling.  
  
    “Barnes, your li’l friend ain’t got _no_ behaviour.”  
  
    “Oh, so when he’s a dick he’s suddenly _my_ friend?”  
  
* * * *   
  
    “Sam?” Bucky’s voice was hoarse with tiredness, but soft all the same. Almost as if he didn’t want to wake Sam. Which was, obviously, bullshit.  
  
Sam didn’t answer right away, hoping that tugging the duvet over his head would be all the answer that Bucky needed. It was probably something like 2 in the morning, and the fact that Bucky seemed to be a nocturnal creature (ha. ha.) was a lot less endearing when Sam had been having a really good dream. It involved berry pie and endless coffee, and Sam wanted nothing more than to get back to it, but…  
  
“Sam? You awake?”  
  
    “No.”  
  
Bucky didn’t answer right away, just wiggling further under the covers and pressing his nose to Sam’s warm neck. Sam yelped and jerked away from Bucky, suddenly awake.  
  
    “Why the fuck is your face so _cold_?!”  
  
    “Was smoking on the balcony.”  
  
    “And you decided to be an asshole and wake me up why? I know you can creep around. Put those skills to use when I’m tryna sleep, maybe?”  
  
    “Missed you.”  
  
    “You-- I’m right here! In our bed! Sleeping!”  
  
Bucky mumbled something under his breath, but Sam caught it all the same.  
“You’re antsy ‘bout later, huh?”  
  
That day, they would be storming the very last base in the area that they knew of. Afterwards, they’d have to return to the States for more intel, as well as to take a fucking break and let Steve have his undoubtedly emotional reunion with his friends. That was, if Sam and Bucky survived the damn day.    
  
    “Keep thinkin’ something could go wrong,” Bucky finally muttered. His eyes caught the faint light of the street light outside, glinting in the dark with cold green fire. It was still a little creepy, although Sam wasn’t even marginally scared of Bucky any more.  
  
    “What’s gonna go wrong?” Sam asked, sitting up and giving up on sleep for now.  
  
    “Could get hurt. Could die.”  
  
Sam sighed a little. The danger of injury or death was the price they paid every time they went after a base, but he’d never heard Bucky sound so worried about it.  
“I know… but you know I got your back, I won’t let them get you again.”  
  
    “I meant _you_ , dumbass.”  
  
    “Me?”  
  
    “I… _you_ could get hurt, or… y’know.”  
  
    “I’m a damn good fighter, Barnes. Don’t need a babysitter.”  
  
    “ _No_ , asshole. I mean… shit. I’ll be real fucked up if you die, okay?”  
  
    “I’m touched,” Sam said dryly, although his heart did a funny kind of flip-flop at Bucky’s words.  
  
    “I’m serious. Sam, I… just… don’t die, okay? Promise.”  
  
    “You’re not the boss of me,” Sam teased gently, letting Bucky pull him closer. Even if the room hadn’t been quiet enough for Sam to hear the words that Bucky whispered, Bucky’s lips shaped the words where they pressed against Sam’s own.  
  
Sam answered by sucking in a sharp breath and surging forward into a kiss that was tinged with desperation; he could feel Bucky’s worry in the way his arms tightened around him, the way his breath seemed to hitch in his chest.  
  
    “Oh, what the hell. We might die tomorrow, right? So--” Sam said the words back, and Bucky hissed “ _You promised not to die,”_ before kissing Sam down onto the mattress and saying _I love you_ again, more roughly, more determined, even though they’d only been together for a few months... because shit, they really could die tomorrow. That would really suck.  
  



	8. eight: the couple that slays together ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this here chapter has a bit of gore in it, y'all. just a heads up :o
> 
> computers/laptops: use your mouse pointer to hover over the Polish for translations. For touchscreen/mobile, I'll add the translations at the end of the chapter! Yay.

Sam’s breath was raspy as he bent over, trying futilely to keep his bandana over his mouth to avoid the worst of the fumes. He knew that it was too late; they’d already breathed in the poison that had been released the minute that they’d set foot inside the base, but he’d be damned if he went out without taking more Hydra agents with him. In the distance, he could just about hear the sounds of Barnes making some Hydra scientists wish they’d never been born. A lot of screaming and meaty tearing sounds that would make Sam feel sick to his stomach except, y’know… Hydra. Fuck ‘em.   
  
Sam tried to pull himself together, gathering his strength to fly down the hallway faster. He didn’t know how much longer he would remain conscious, and then it’d be up to Barnes – at least until he, too, succumbed.   
  
Steve was gonna be _so mad_ when he found out they’d died.   
  
Sam felt the burst of heat from a bullet zipping by his arm and focused in, using the natural dexterity of his wings to dodge another burst of gunfire as he pulled a knife from the sheath at his hip. A grunt and a little resistance against his blade as he sped past his attacker, then the sticky splash of warm blood told him he’d hit home. He didn’t enjoy killing people; the stuff he’d seen with Barnes… the shit he’d seen Barnes _do_ to other people… it made it harder to sleep than he’d like to admit.   
  
He barely registered the sudden relative quiet coming from the hallway ahead until he glided over bodies of Hydra agents, sprawled in various states of ‘fucked up.’ Still no sign of Barnes. His throat wasn’t burning anymore, but Sam knew it didn’t mean anything good. His airways were closing off slowly but surely, and the room started swimming so badly that he had to land. Flying skull-first the concrete ceiling would be a pretty embarrassing way for the Falcon to go out. _Honestly._  
  
Bucky came into view now, standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms relaxed at his sides. At his feet, the limp form of a man. The man’s beige uniform was dark with blood, but Sam could see even in the flickering fluorescent lights that he was breathing shallowly.   
  
    “Barnes, ‘s that the last one?” Sam croaked. He was vaguely surprised that he could still speak. He wondered how much longer they had. He wondered who would tell his family what had happened. Who would tell Misty. He knew Misty would blame herself for helping him to scrounge up information on the Winter Soldier, only for Sam to die with the same man. Sam wondered--  
  
He wondered why Bucky wasn’t answering. Instead, his hands were flexing and unflexing and the man on the floor let out a harsh, gurgling sound. A laugh. He spoke, but the language was unfamiliar.   
  
Sam barely had time to conjure his wings and hurl himself backwards, Bucky’s metal arm closing on thin air where Sam’s throat had just been. Bucky’s pupils were slits, his mouth in a snarl, his face splattered with blood. But Sam saw _fear_ instead of rage, at least in the second of rest before Bucky charged again and Sam had to choose between scraping the hell out of his arm on some of the broken concrete… or have his entire face disintegrated by the Winter--  
  
By Bucky--  
  
By…   
  
    “He-- knew some of the trigger words,” Bucky (Bucky, it was _Bucky_ ) grit out harshly even as he strained against his own hand going for his pistol. “Duck, _duck!_ Shit--”  
  
Sam flattened himself on the ceiling just in time, but at the same time he felt strangely serene. He was light-headed. Even the deep gash on his arm didn’t hurt much, just more slick, glistening red against the brown of his skin. He was either going to die from the poison, or from Bucky. He wasn’t sure which was worse.   
  
Before he could try to get another word out, his wings disappeared. He was too groggy to maintain them, and he fell to the ground with a strangled yell. Bucky made a pained sound as his body moved against his will; it was oddly quiet in the hallway, save for the wet, gurgling breaths of the man that Bucky had fought. That made the sound of the rubble crunching under Bucky’s boots that much louder, and his hoarse whisper might as well have been a shout.  
  
    “You gotta do it, Sam. Do it now. You gotta-- just end it.”  
  
    “Fuck you.” Sam’s eyes were closed and he felt like he was falling asleep, but he murmured the words all the same.   
  
    “Just … Sam. Sammy. I can’t stop, he knew the words. Sam, you gotta do it!”  
  
    “Tired.”  
  
    “Fuck, _fuck._ Shit, don’t fall asleep. Sam!”  
  
    “Mmngh.” It was so warm, and he felt so comfortable. Loose-limbed. Was this what death was like? Is this how his father had felt? Peaceful? Sam hoped so. When his body jostled, sending a jolt of pain through his arm and thigh ( _deep lacerations, heavy bleeding, potentially chipped bone_ ) he groaned. He was trying to _sleep,_ fuck. Something was tugging at his hip now, the sound of metal buckles jingling sharp through the fog in his head.  
  
    “Sam?”  
  
Sam was so sleepy.  
  
“ _Sam._ Don’t do this, asshole. Shit. Shit, _shit._ ”  
  
Sam wondered if his father would recognize him now.   
  
Barnes’ footsteps were stumbling away now, growing softer.   
  
"Misja ukończona," Bucky said in a distintrested monotone.  
  
Sam’s stomach was starting to cramp now and he twitched, trying and failing to curl around the pain.   
  
"Myślę, że nie, Żołnierz. On wciąż żyje. Nie grzebaj się a zabij go," the man replied shortly. He couldn't have been more than a few minutes away from death, but he was still trying to exert his authority, still trying to get the Soldier to do his bidding. Bucky's bluff hadn't worked.   
  
Sam groaned now, the pain in his gut getting sharper and more insistent. He’d so hoped to go while he was still in that sweet foggy state, but now he was all too aware of the cold sweat all over him, of Bucky stumbling back over to him for the last time. There was a lot of scuffling and yelling, not all of it in English, and suddenly Sam felt cold air against his chest. He let out a grunt when something wickedly sharp pierced his skin, but then there were warm hands pulling him into a sitting position.  
  
    “Sam, I swear to god if you die right now I’m gonna find you in the afterlife and _kick your ass._ ”   
  
He knew that voice.  
  
    “Bucky? Oh my god, Bucky, is that _you_?”  
  
Sam knew that voice, too.  
  
Sam took a huge, gasping breath and everything slammed back at once-- the overhead lights were too bright, everything was too loud, and Misty Knight’s eyes were huge and worried behind her gas mask.   
  
    “Don’t look down, Sammy.”  
  
Sam looked down. There was a rather large hypodermic needle sticking out of his chest, and he very seriously considered curling up again. He looked back up at Misty, _Why?_ written all over his face.  
  
“Adrenaline,” Misty said apologetically. Her voice sounded muffled from inside the mask, even as she fumbled in the duffel at her side for another mask to fit over Sam’s head. He took a few shaky breaths, carefully avoiding looking down.   
  
    “Is Sam okay?” Steve asked, even as he struggled with Bucky in a headlock. The man who had said the incomplete trigger words was dead now, so the two best friends were caught in the awkward position of Bucky’s body trying its best to kill Steve, while he swore and apologized for the inconvenience.   
  
    “Sam’s prolly gonna have some choice words for me stabbing him with a needle, but he’s fine,” Misty called back. She helped Sam to his feet, keeping an eye on the tussle between the two centenarians.   
  
    “All right, all _right_ , that’s enough. Sorry, Buck,” Steve said, grimacing and showing bloodied teeth. Barnes’ fighting was getting a little more feeble now as Steve did his best to render his friend unconscious without injuring him.   
  
    “‘S… okay… Rogers,” Bucky rasped. He looked up at Sam with watering eyes and managed a wink before finally going limp and slumping to the floor.   
  
Sam still wasn’t up to speaking, but he let out an audible yelp when the needle was yanked from his chest (he’d almost forgotten about it, dammit.) Misty looked exceedingly innocent as one of the clever ribbons of light threaded through her hair pulled back, the syringe now curled safely in its grip.   
  
    “Had to do it while you were distracted makin’ googly eyes at your li’l boyfriend.”  
  
Sam glared, but he tightened his arm around Misty’s waist in silent thanks. Then he glanced down.   
  
    “When … when did you get a metal arm?”  
  
    “Oh, some shit went down while you were on your romantic Euro getaway,” she said faux-lightly, urging Sam into a slow amble behind Steve. Bucky dangled bonelessly over Steve’s shoulders as the strange quartet picked their way through rubble and dead bodies.   
  
    “ _Some shit_.” Sam felt wrung out, but he was at least able to walk upright mostly under his own power. And, most importantly, sound just as sarcastic as Misty.   
“Mitts, what the fuck.”  
  
    “I’ll tell you later, when we’re sure you ain’t gonna die in the middle of my story.”  
  
    “Woman--”  
  
    “What? It’s a _good_ story.”  
  
    “It is, she told me on the flight over,” Steve said from up ahead. He flashed an easy grin at them, as though he and Misty hadn’t just plucked Sam and Bucky from certain death in an unmarked underground Hydra facility. Sam was silent, his sluggish mind mulling over the sudden appearance of his friends; when they emerged into the fresh air, he had a thought.  
  
    “Wait, you two were in touch?”  
  
    “Mhm. I texted him coupla months ago,” Misty said matter-of-factly. Steve hummed in agreement as he lowered Bucky to the ground, making sure his unconscious friend didn’t crack his head on the pavement.   
  
    “Extraction in 5 minutes. Keep alert,” Steve said after briefly checking his watch-that-was-definitely-not-just-a-watch.   
  
    “I know how to run an op, Cap.” Misty’s voice was light, but brooked no nonsense.   
  
    “‘Course, I didn’t mean-- yeah. Of course.”  
  
Misty favoured him with a small smile before turning back to Sam.   
“Anyway, I got in touch with Rogers and we been keeping an eye on you.”  
  
    “ _What_? But you didn’t know where we were,” Sam said. He was suddenly exhausted again and he leaned against the brick wall for support.   
  
    “Yeah, if Barnes was alone, we wouldn’t. But -- and don’t take this the wrong way, Sammy -- I could find you anywhere, anytime. I _know_ you. So we tracked you, meanin’ we tracked him.”  
  
    “Bucky’s gonna be pissed.”  
  
    “Let him be. Tracking you is how we knew your dumb asses were tryna die in the middle of nowhere with no backup.”  
  
Sam shot an unimpressed look at Steve. “And Cap just played stupid, huh?”  
  
    “I dunno, seems like it paid off,” Steve said mildly. He bounced his eyebrows, just barely keeping his smugness under control.   
“Misty said you were a magnet for trouble; I _know_ Buck is a guided missile for trouble. It was only a matter of time.”  
  
Sam made a disgruntled noise, but Misty nudged him with her shoulder as she offered Sam a bottle of lukewarm water. Sam took a few feeble sips, still feeling  wobbly and achingly tired.   
  
    “You did good, Sammy. You and Barnes.”  
  
He smiled a little bit, knowing that this was glowing praise from Misty.   
  
    “And once we’re sure you two are okay…”  
  
    “Yeah?”  
  
    “We’re going sightseeing.”  
  
    “ _What?_ ”  
  
    “That sounds kinda nice, actually,” Steve interjected. “Never had time to go to the museums here.”  
  
    “See? Rogers is on board. Socks and sandals.”  
  
    “Please don’t,” Sam said, managing a tired laugh. It was just sinking in that he’d almost really, truly _died._ But that he hadn’t. Bucky hadn’t. Their friends had come through.   
  
    “Socks and sandals, Sam! Socks. And. San. Dals,” Misty chanted, tapping the rhythm on Sam’s shoulder. Steve put on a look of confusion that fooled absolutely no one.   
  
    “What’s wrong with socks and sandals?”  
  
    “How much time you got?”  
  
Sam fought his tiredness in the back seat of the van that mysteriously appeared 3 minutes later, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest where he was stretched across the seat. Sam pushed a lock of hair off of Bucky’s forehead, only wrinkling his nose a little at the strands being damp with sweat and god knows what else. Bucky’s mouth twitched into a soft smile, and Sam caught Misty’s appraising look.   
  
_Yeah, okay._  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misja ukończona. = “Mission completed.” 
> 
> Myślę, że nie, Żołnierz. On wciąż żyje. Nie grzebaj się a zabij go. = “I think not, Soldier. He’s still alive. Stop wasting time and go kill him.”


	9. nine: that good sappy shit

_ 2 months, 3 weeks, 5 days. _   
  


Bucky Barnes was an early riser. This wouldn’t have been a problem if he wasn’t also a touch-starved sap; Sam usually found himself woken up by Bucky snuffling at his neck (“Shut up, Wilson. You smell _good,_ okay?”) or tracing Sam’s arm with nimble fingertips (“Your skin’s really soft”) or with a mischievous pinch on his thigh or ass (“You awake? Wanna fool around?”)  
  
The last 5 or 6 weeks had been a haze of nice hotels; they felt no guilt whatsoever using Hydra’s money to live in the lap of luxury, over-the-top meals at exclusive restaurants, and poking around abandoned castles (surprisingly, Sam’s idea.)  
  
Oh, and the sex. Lots and lots of sex. If Sam had found out that Bucky’s sharp teeth had more use than inflicting injury, well… that was just between them. Sam was deeply, pleasantly achy when he slipped out of bed. Bucky was still out cold, and Sam allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction. He’d pulled out all the stops last night, and it had paid off. The sun was just peeking over the fringes of the small hill overlooking their cottage and Sam padded to the window to enjoy the warmth as the orange-yellow light slid over his bare skin.   
  
They’d finally been cleared for travel by Misty, who had insisted that she needed a vacation. Sam didn’t miss the fact that the ‘vacation’ lasted long enough for him to recover; his cuts and more serious lacerations had healed into raised, shiny scars, and his lungs had just about recovered from the damage done by the toxins. He’d need an inhaler on and off from then on, but it was a small price to pay for _not dying_ , so he didn’t complain. Much.   
  
Now, Sam took a deep breath in, revelling in the relative ease with which he could do so now. _Fucking Hydra_.  Behind him, he heard Bucky shift in bed and grumble about the sun in his eyes, even though moments later the sound of his bare feet against the floor told Sam that his boyfriend was shuffling over to him.   
  
Sam turned to tell Bucky good morning, but Bucky was faster than him, capturing him in a lingering kiss. Morning breath and all.   
  
    “You look good like that,” Bucky murmured against Sam’s mouth. Sam pulled back and rolled his eyes fondly.   
  
    “What, naked?”  
  
    “Well, _yeah_ , but… in the sun like that.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes were narrowed against the sun and his pupils were slits, but far from being off-putting to Sam now, they were just another thing that he liked. Not that he was gone over Barnes, or anything. Definitely not.   
  
Bucky didn’t speak, just pressing his fingertips against Sam’s chest, lightly skimming the slightly shiny scars that curved underneath his pecs. Touching his other, newer scars. A silent thanks that they were both alive and together, although neither of them really verbalized it as such. They stood in silence like that for a while, Bucky occasionally leaning in to steal kisses like he couldn’t help himself. Sam would blame it on emotions, but he turned and cupped Bucky’s jaw to get his attention.  
  
    “You can touch ‘em,” he whispered, gesturing to his wings. In the direct sun, they were faint; the pinks and deep purples were barely visible.  
  
    “Really?” Bucky breathed. His fingers twitched a little, the _want_ obvious in his body language.  
  
    “Yeah. Yeah, go ahead.”  
  
Sam had never seen someone’s pupils dilate that quickly.  
  



	10. ten: and then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes yes y'all, and the fic's stopped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wilsons are back to wrap things up. Li'l bit of sexin'. 
> 
> Also, Sam hears from an old friend. Hmmm.

The silence was really fucking awkward, and Sam would have been amused to see Bucky Barnes blush if he himself hadn’t also been mortified. Even Misty looked faintly embarrassed, which was saying something.  
  
Sam had just introduced his boyfriend to his mother and siblings, and they were just kinda… _staring_. He should have known better than to hope that hours and hours of Skype calls explaining the situation ( _Yes, ma. The same one who tried to kill me. But-- wait, ma, just listen--_ ) had been sufficient to ease their suspicion. He couldn’t really blame them. Some days, he found himself wondering exactly how he’d ended up snuggling in bed with the man previously known as the Winter Soldier.   
  
    “Uh… Mrs. Wilson. Sarah. Gideon. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Misty… good to, uh... see you again,” Bucky murmured politely. Even the tips of his ears were turning pink now, which Sam had thought was a Steve Rogers specialty.  
  
Sam sent a pleading _Please, god, say something_ look at his older brother, who pursed his lips slightly before relenting.   
  
    “James. I’m sure I don’t have to give you the whole shovel talk regarding my little brother, so I’m just gonna settle for a really firm handshake. Maybe a dirty look or two. Show I _really_ mean business.” Gideon grinned as he extended a hand, and the tension popped like a soap bubble.   
  
Sam was soon rolling his eyes as his sister complained about how much his hair needed a lineup, and his mother only hesitated a little before giving Bucky a short hug. She was still a little reserved, but Sam would take it.   
  
    “Welcome home, baby,” she murmured as she pulled Sam into a much longer and tighter hug. The words made him want to melt into her arms. He was _home_.  
  
* * * *  
  
_The next morning.  
_  
  
    “He talks in his sleep,” Darlene said quietly. She pushed a cup of coffee towards her bleary-eyed younger son, who was apparently an early riser now (she wished he had been during his high school days; it would have made his parents’ lives a lot easier.)   
  
    “Muh?”  
  
Maybe Sam hadn’t changed _that_ much regarding getting up early.   
  
    “James. He was talking in his sleep.”  
  
Sam blinked a few times, caught in the act of blowing on his coffee to cool it down.   
“What he say?”  
  
    “Dunno. Wasn’t English. He sound frighten, though,” she hummed thoughtfully. Sam frowned and looked through the archway into the living room, where Bucky was curled up on the old pullout couch, snoring softly. Sam wasn’t fooled for a second. Bucky didn’t snore when he was actually asleep.   
  
    “How you know he scared if he not talking English?” he whispered to his mother. She just raised her eyebrows.  
  
    “A mother knows.”  
  
    “Bullsh-- I mean, that’s unlikely.” Sam caught himself just in time, and the minute quirk of his mother’s eyebrows told him that he’d acted wisely.  
  
    “Said your name a couple times,” Darlene continued.  
  
    “Mama, _please_ give the man li’l privacy?”  
  
    “Eh! He on _my_ couch in _my_ house.”  
  
    “‘Cause you won’t let him stay with me in my room!”  
  
    “You know the house rules, Samuel. No ring, no room sharing.”  
  
    “ _Maaaaa…_ ”  
  
    “Don’t you _maaaa_ me, boy. You a goat?” But Darlene was smiling in the way that meant she would relent; she’d always had a bit of a soft touch when it came to her children.  
  
    “Uh… good morning,” Bucky said. Sam was startled, but Darlene merely took a serene sip of her coffee as she took in her son’s boyfriend. The boy’s hair was a bird’s nest, but he’d at least pulled on a shirt. He had some semblance of manners, which was more than she could have said for some of Sam’s previous partners.   
  
    “Morning, James. You sleep good?” she said pleasantly. She gestured to the coffee pot and mugs on the counter, inviting him to serve himself. Darlene caught the soft expression on her son’s face as he glanced at his bedraggled boyfriend, and silently made a decision.   
  
Bucky was even less of a morning person than Sam, but he pulled together his half-asleep brain well enough to croak a “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”  
  
    “James, why you lyin’ to me?”  
  
Bucky turned from the coffee pot, looking caught out. Sam opened his mouth to interject, but Darlene continued, “You didn’t sleep a damn wink. Sammy’s bed is more comfortable. Move your things up there, g’wan go have a nap.”  
  
    “But, ma’am--”  
  
    “Firstly, it’s Darlene. Secondly… Sam?”  
  
Sam, grinning widely now, finished for his mother: “Don’t argue with her, Bucky.” Bucky still looked a little confused, but his tension melted away just a little and he smiled cautiously.  
  
* * * *   
  
_Mitts: lmao did yall figure out how u gon fuck in mrs. d’s house yet  
__  
__Sam: why are you so NASTY  
__  
__Mitts: answer the question sam-mule_  
  
  
    “Sam?”  
  
  
_Sam: i aint saying shit, detective  
__  
__Mitts: remember when ur parents caught u n riley that time  
__  
__Sam: a real friend wouldnt remind me of that  
__  
__Mitts: a rreal friedn WOULD lmao_ _  
__Mitts: real*_ _  
__Mitts: friend** dammit  
__  
__Sam: lol cant spell  
__  
__Mitts: shut upppp_ _  
_  
“Samuel Thomas,” Sarah said again, jabbing her brother in the ribs. Sam squawked unattractively and almost dropped his phone, but Sarah plucked it from his fingers and lowered herself to sit next to him on the front steps.   
“Who you talkin to so much? Bucket--”  
  
    “ _Bucky._ ”  
  
    “-- still dead asleep in your room. At least I think so. He look dead. He always sleep like that?”  
  
    “You went in my room?”  
  
Sarah shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah.”  
  
_Little sisters._  
  
    “Yeah, _nosy big-head gyal_ , he asleep. I messaging Mitts, gimme the phone back.”  
  
Sarah ignored him, sighing deeply and fidgeting with his phone. Sam noticed with a jolt that she looked like she’d been crying, and berated himself for not noticing how withdrawn she’d seemed.   
“Rara, what happen?”  
  
    “I got in.”  
  
    “In…?” Sam prodded. When he got no answer, he wracked his brain trying to remember what she could be talking about, and then --   
“Wait, you get into your first choice?”  
  
The smile she gave him was a wan little thing, but it was a start. “I get into all of them, Sam.”  
  
    “That’s _amazing!_ No? Rara, you get into the top Marine Biology programs, why you look like somebody makin’ you eat lemons?”  
  
    “They all abroad.”  
  
    “Then… nuh so? That not what you want?”  
  
Sam was surprised when she suddenly threw her arms around him, making little snuffling noises that he knew meant she was trying and failing not to cry.   
“I-- don’t want -- leave-- mama alone,” she said. Her words were hiccuped between her tears and Sam squeezed her in a tight hug.   
  
    “Mama will be all right, Rara…” he said quietly, still unsure why his sister was so nervous. She hadn’t been anything short of adventurous since she’d hit her teens.   
  
    “Wh-what if something happen to her? What if she get l-lonely?”  
  
    “Oh, _girl._ ‘Deon is just a city away, and you know I’ll fly up if anything…”  
  
    “‘Deon and Therese just have their second baby, and you busy with Bunker--”  
  
    “ _Bucky_.”  
  
    “I sad, lemme call him what I want,” she sniffled sulkily against his shoulder. Sam chuckled a little and squeezed her again, wanting to comfort her but not able to stop thinking _Ma will have more time to miss dad_.   
  
    “You can call me Bunker,” Bucky said awkwardly from the front door. Apparently Sam was dating Batman, what with all the dramatic appearances in doorways.   
  
Sarah pulled away from her brother, wiping at her eyes and trying to smile. Sam raised his eyebrows in mute question at his boyfriend, who grimaced a little and held up a lighter; he’d come out to sneak a cigarette.   
  
“Mind if I sit?” Bucky asked, waiting for Sarah to nod before sitting on the other side of her.   
“Couldn’t help but overhear…”  
  
    “Bet you _could_ ,” Sam muttered. Sarah didn’t even look at him, just pinching him hard on the thigh to shut him up.   
  
    “You got cold feet about goin’ overseas?” Bucky continued, also ignoring Sam. Sam wasn’t sure he liked this tentative alliance between the Wilsons and his boyfriend; it meant more ammo against Sam himself, probably.   
  
    “Yeah, I guess,” Sarah said ruefully. “Hey, can I have one of those?”  
  
    “No, she can _not_ ,” Sam said forcefully. Bucky spared him a glance before turning his attention back to Sarah.   
  
    “Will your ma kill me for givin’ you one?”   
  
Sarah was already holding out her hand for the cigarette before Bucky even finished his sentence.   
“Nah, she likes you. You got to stay in Sammy’s room. Which-- by the way. I’m not sayin’ nothin’, but my room’s right next door and I got sensitive hearing. I’m just… sayin’.”  
  
Bucky, having already lit his own cigarette, nodded as he exhaled a stream of smoke.   
“Ah, don’t worry. I don’t snore or anything.”  
  
Sarah gave him a narrow look as she lit up, clearly knowing that he was being a little shit. She also seemed to decide that she liked that. Sam, meanwhile, was auditioning for the role of chopped liver.   
  
    “Well, good,” she finally nodded. “Sam definitely… snores. I remember this one time when Riley slept over, and--”  
  
    “Sarah, I will throw your phone in the lake,” Sam interrupted loudly. Bucky sent him a little smirk that was both teasing and… well, _teasing._   
  
    “Me and Sarah are bonding, Sam. Isn’t that what you want?”  
  
    “Yeah, we’re gonna be best friends,” Sarah said earnestly. Sam made a mental note to never, _ever_ let her meet Steve. The amount of sassy smartass would cause a fucking black hole in the universe.   
  
    “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time that a bunch of crows chased Sam all over this little village in France?” Bucky asked. Sam gave up on trying to maintain his dignity, instead getting his revenge by telling Sarah all about the time that Bucky got drunk and attempted to steal several chickens (“I wanted to _raise_ them, not _eat_ them,”) and how yes, that was the same village and no, they were definitely not allowed back there.   
  
Sarah accidentally bowled Bucky over with her wings because Sam surprised her by snatching her cigarette and stubbing it out on the ground; Sam didn’t even pretend to protest when Bucky distracted him with a kiss while he snuck Sarah another cigarette; they watched the sun go down as Sarah sketched tentative plans for her PhD in Switzerland; Bucky offered to teach her his father’s famous bread pudding recipe sometime, which made her cry all over again for some reason.   
  
    “Okay, _damn_. I’m hungry and ma’s gonna have my ass if I come to the dinner table smelling like smoke. I’m gonna shower and y’all can make goo-goo eyes in peace.”  
  
    “We’re not making goo-goo eyes,” Sam said distractedly as he and Bucky made goo-goo eyes at each other. His sister just left with a good-natured scoff, and Bucky edged a little closer to Sam.   
  
    “That true about you being noisy, Sammy?”  
  
Sam felt himself go warm in the face.   
“You know the answer to that, asshole.”  
  
Bucky bit his lip thoughtfully, and Sam found himself watching the too-sharp teeth, remembering how they skirted the edge of pain when they pressed against Sam’s skin--  
  
    “Think you can be quiet?”  
  
    “What?” Sam asked, playing coy. Bucky was unimpressed.  
  
    “Tonight. I want you, Sammy.”   
  
    “In my mama’s _house_?”  
  
    “We don’t have to. But if you’re in… dare you to be _real quiet_.”  
  
_Dammit._ Barnes knew exactly how to get under Sam’s skin (and into his pants.)  
  
* * * *  
  
Sam was sure that Bucky’s hand must be cramping now, but Barnes didn’t seem to have any complaints. Instead, his keen yellow eyes were focused on Sam’s face, reading into Sam’s furrowed brow and the way he was biting his lips like his life depended on it.   
  
Downstairs, his family was yelling at _Wheel of Fortune_ , but it was only a matter of time before they’d be called for dinner, and he was testing Sam’s resolve in the most sweetly torturous way he could. Sam let out a breathy sigh, only to get a soft disapproving ‘tsk’ from Bucky as he continued to stroke Sam firmly but agonizingly slowly.   
  
    “You said you could be quiet, Sam,” he murmured against Sam’s trembling mouth. “Prove it.”   
  
To prove he was a real asshole, he took his time rubbing his fingers through the wetness in Sam’s boxers, spreading it on his inner thighs. Just because he could. Sam tried to shoot him a dirty look, but his eyes rolled back in his head when Bucky skimmed his fingers over Sam’s dick, the rough calluses of his hands almost too much against his sensitive skin. Damn if that wasn’t the way Sam liked it, though, and he was so… so close--  
  
    “Sammy! James! Come down for dinner!”  
  
    “Coming in a second!” Bucky called back, sounding totally normal despite the fact that he was rolling his hips against Sam now, helplessly turned on himself.  
  
    “I--”  
  
    “Shhh, Sammy. You promised. Be good for me.” Sam felt Bucky’s warm breath against his neck as he leaned down to lick a hot stripe up the side of Sam’s neck and nip at his shoulder and... that was it, Sam’s legs practically gave out when he came, muffling his strangled moan in Bucky’s shirt.  
  
    “I won’t count that last one as making a noise,” Bucky said a little breathlessly. His irises were almost all black with arousal, and his cheeks were touched with pink. Sam opened his mouth to snark back, but let out a choked sound when Bucky slipped his fingers out of Sam’s boxers and into his mouth. The sound Bucky made at the taste of his lover on his fingers was damn indecent, and Sam watched wordlessly as his boyfriend cleaned them with his tongue, keeping eye contact with Sam the whole time.   
  
“Before we go down to eat, do me one more favour?” Bucky asked. He made a face and adjusted himself in his jeans so that his erection wasn’t quite so uncomfortable, and Sam hid a smile.   
  
    “What?”  
  
    “Look at yourself.”  
  
    “What the fuck?”  
  
    “C’mon,” Bucky urged gently. Sam let himself be ushered over to the bathroom mirror, feeling like he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Maybe another round later tonight; it _had_ been a while.   
  
“God, babe. Look at you,” Bucky muttered as he slipped his arms around Sam’s hips, unable to help grinding against him a little. Sam looked up, meeting Bucky’s eyes in the reflection with a pretty damn skeptical look.   
  
“Not me, Sam. You.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, but did as Bucky asked just so they could get downstairs faster. And… he looked _good_ , a dark flush of red along his cheekbones, his eyes shining in the vanity lighting above the mirror… and yeah, his beard was a little scraggly (shut up, Sarah) but it was even fuller than it used to be. Maybe it was just post-orgasmic swagger, but he’d work with it for now.  
  
    “What was the point of all that, Barnes?” he muttered even as he smirked at himself in the mirror.  
  
    “Just wanted to remind you of how fucking hot you are,” Bucky said lightly. He leaned past Sam to wash his hands, all business now. “Wait a couple minutes to come downstairs, it’ll be less suspicious.”  
  
    “ _And_ I look like you just fucked me in the bathroom.”  
  
    “Yeah, that too.”  
  
* * * *   
  
    “... and _then_ he tries to run even though I saw him hand over the USB,” Misty said, setting down her tea. She needed free hands to gesture and perfectly paint the story of this month’s World’s Dumbest Criminal. She was in her element, keeping the attention of the table. Well. _Most_ of the table. Sam was admittedly being rude, but he’d just gotten a text.  
  
  
_[Unknown number]: Sam?  
__  
__Sam: who this  
__  
__[Unknown number]: idk if this is the right number but it’s what ur mom told me  
__  
__Sam: ….  
__  
__[Unknown number]: its Riley  
__  
_  
Sam lurched up from his seat, startling Bucky and a few others.   
“I gotta…” he gestured to the door and flashed an apologetic smile at his mother. She looked more worried than annoyed, and he knew that she’d grill him as soon as he came back inside.   
  
    “Want me to come?” Bucky asked quietly. Sam hesitated before nodding, and the chatter in the living room cut off abruptly when the door closed behind them.   
  
    “It’s Riley,” Sam said shortly. Bucky didn’t say anything, just nodding slowly. They eased into the porch chairs and Bucky silently offered his hand. Sam gripped it tightly, using the other to continue texting. Bucky didn’t ask, and wouldn’t, but Sam angled the screen so that they could both read. It just felt right.  
  
_Sam: r u serious?_

_[Unknown number]: yeah._

_Sam: i don’t even know what to say_

_[Unknown number]: fair enough lol_

_Sam: where the fuck have you been_

_[Unknown number]: deep cover. just got out_

_Sam: bullshit_

_[Unknown number]: can I call you?  
_ _  
_ _Sam: no_ _  
_ _Sam: shit_ _  
_ _Sam: ok. but  
_ _  
_ _[Unknown number]: but what  
_ _  
_ _Sam: as long as its not idk_ _  
_ _Sam: a thing.  
_ _  
_ _Sam: i got a man ;)  
_ _  
_ _[Unknown number]:[what ya man got to do with me?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvYIpa1Ulvw&feature=youtu.be&t=64) _   
  
Sam burst out laughing, and then was surprised to find that his cheeks were a little wet. When had he been crying? Bucky’s mouth quirked in an unsure smile when Sam gave him a reassuring nod, and the both of them watched Sam’s phone until it lit up with an incoming call.   
  
    “I got you on speaker, so don’t be nasty,” Sam said in greeting. A snort of laughter came through the tinny speakers, and Sam felt like he was 20 years old again.   
  
_“Your_ man _there?”_ Riley asked. They sounded older, more gravelly and deep than Sam remembered. Then again, Sam’s voice had changed a lot too. To say the least.   
  
    “Uhm… he is,” Bucky said. After a slightly surprised pause, Riley laughed even harder and Sam felt mildly offended.   
  
    “Why you bustin’ up over me having a man?” Sam asked, scowling as though Riley could see him.   
  
    _“I’m laughing because you got the poor boy there listening to this foolishness.”_   
  
    “Eh! Is only foolishness because you a fool.”   
  
    _“Yeah, yeah. Hey… so… I’m in town.”_   
  
    “Have fun.”   
  
    _“Lord, Sam, give me a minute. I just want to talk.”_   
  
Sam’s smile was fading a little now. Riley had broken his heart, disappeared into some apparently even-more-secret-than-the-Falcon-programme thing that had effectively wiped them from the face of the Earth. Sam had all but come to terms with Riley probably being dead. And here they were. Hearty and whole, laughing on the phone like 15 damn years hadn’t passed.   
  
    _“Sam?”_   
  
    “What.”   
  
_“Just a cup of coffee. You can bring your_ man _. Hey, man, you got a name?”_   
  
Bucky raised his eyebrows in surprise. “James.”   
  
_“Hiii, James. Sammy, bring James. He sounds sexy.”_   
  
    “Riley, I’m gonna kick your ass!”   
  
    “I’ll take the compliment,” Bucky said agreeably. Sam shoved him, scoffed at Riley, and realized he was at a crossroads. He could carry around his anger and grief about Riley, or he could… not.   
  
_“Sam, please? Bring James. I’ll bring my kids, I’d love for you to meet them.”_   
  
    “You got _kids?!_ ”   
  
_“Three beautiful girls.”_   
  
    “Shit, Ri. Shit. I’m… I mean…” Sam glanced at Bucky, who shrugged in a ‘Whatever you want’ way.   
“All right. One coffee. I want to meet your girls. Hopefully they take after their _other_ parent, wit’ ya ugly ass.”   
  
_“I’ve missed you too, Sammy.”_   
  
* * * *    
  
The hug that Darlene gave Bucky was a proper hug, long and tight enough that he wheezed a little in her embrace.   
  
    “You take care, James. And _eat._ And get some more sun. And… take care of my boy. And Sam, I can feel you rolling your eyes behind me.”   
  
Sam sighed, because of course she’d sensed it.   
  
    “Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said with a little wink that earned him a playful swat on the arm from Sam’s mother.   
  
Darlene tucked a tin into Sam’s duffle bag, where it clunked against several others.   
  
    “Ma, are those _more_ cookies?”   
  
    “Is not my fault y’all make so many, Samuel. And from what you tell me of the Captain, he gon’ eat all these.”   
  
    “You’re not wrong,” Bucky admitted ruefully. Steve had been sending them annoying amounts of cookie and eyes emojis ever since they’d posted that picture of Sarah, Sam and Gideon baking on Instagram.   
  
    “Gideon soon come back from dropping Sarah at the airport; sure you don’t want to wait for him?” Darlene asked. Sam smiled a little sadly, remembering how scared his little sister had looked when she’d told her mother about doing her PhD abroad. There had been a lot of tears that night, actually (although Bucky would never admit to getting misty-eyed during the whole thing.)   
  
    “Nah, ma. We meeting Riley and then we got a long drive to pick up Steve in Utah.”   
  
    “What he doin’ way out there?”   
  
    “We asked him the same thing, only less polite,” Bucky smiled.   
  
    “Dunno, ma. Superhero stuff,” Sam shrugged.   
  
    “The people you run ‘round with, Samuel. I swear.” She shook her head, although she did return Bucky’s little grin.   
  
    “I know.”   
  
* * * *   
  
_“You a better person than me, Sam.”_   
  
    “Give me that in writing?” Sam asked. Bucky was hunched over his own phone, muttering that _Yes_ , Steve, they’d be bringing some of those cookies, would he drop it already? Sam was driving an entirely too fancy rental car, and Misty had called him to chew him out over meeting with Riley at all.   
  
_“Never. You okay, though? I kinda want to dropkick them, and they didn’t even date me.”_   
  
    “Yeah. It’s… it’ll be fine. I’m meeting their kids. Me and Bucky are meeting ‘em, I mean.”   
  
    “ _Shit. They got kids? Shiiiiit._ ”   
  
    “Yeah, shit.”   
  
_“Good luck.”_   
  
    “Wait, before you go… what’s this I hearing about some man name Danny? You got a boo?”   
  
_“Who told y-- mind your business, Sam Wilson.”_   
  
    “Why? You never mind yours.”   
  
_“That’s my job. Speaking of which, lunch break is over. Bye!”_   
  
    “You too lie, you not at work. Misty? Misty!”   
  
Sam rolled his eyes as the bluetooth speaker announced that the call had been terminated. Bucky lifted his head.   
  
    “Steve wants to know if Misty has a boyfriend.”   
  
    “Tell Steve he ain’t ready for Misty Knight.”   
  
* * * *   
  
    “You nervous?” Bucky asked, watching Sam fidget with his menu. Sam shrugged.   
  
“So, that’s a yes,” Bucky answered himself.   
  
    “I dunno. Is this weird for you?” Sam asked quietly.   
  
    “Meeting up with my boyfriend’s ex for coffee?”   
  
    “Yeah.”   
  
    “Let’s go over the part where I was frozen for decades--”   
  
    “All right, all right. Your bar for ‘weird’ is fuckin’ high, I get it.”   
  
Bucky didn’t say anything, settling for grabbing one of Sam’s hands and pressing a kiss to it.   
  
They lapsed into comfortable silence until Riley suddenly rounded the corner, three tiny black poodles in tow.   
  
    “Sammy! You look-- _wow_ . Is that James? Holy shit!”   
  
    “Riley.”   
  
    “-- you’re fuckin’ jacked now, man! Your ma said you were in the Air Force too? That’s wild--”   
  
    “ _Riley._ ”   
  
    “Yeah?”   
  
    “Your kids are fuckin’ _dogs_ ?”   
  
    “Yeah. These are my babies, Sammy. This is Princess, and this is Killer, and this is Brystal.”   
  
    “You joking with these names.”   
  
    “Can I pet them?” Bucky asked eagerly. Sam could already sense trouble; months of pleading to get a puppy, Riley being a smartass and _oh god_ , if Steve met Riley-- if Steve met _Sarah_ … if Steve and Riley and Sarah met… Sam was in for a world of trouble when his worlds collided. He was kind of looking forward to it.   
  
As Riley and Bucky bonded over making frankly undignified sounds at the poodles, Sam sipped his latte and glanced at the sinking sun. The sky was shot through with soft pinks and violets, much like his own wings. Like his father’s wings.   
  
Sam would never admit to thinking such a corny thought, but even as he argued with Bucky that no, they couldn’t go look at puppies to adopt that weekend, he felt as light in his heart as he did the very first time he’d ever flown.   
  



	11. bonus dvd content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little baby epilogue! because I'll be DAMNED if I ever end a fic without a marriage proposal, apparently.

    “C’mon, sweetheart… up up up the stairs! Good girl!”  
  
Sam continued to pretend he was sleeping; he didn’t want to spoil whatever surprise poor Bucky had been trying to train their 6-month old puppy to do for Sam’s birthday. He was hard-pressed not to laugh when she barked and knocked over a potted plant in the hallway, prompting a fair amount of swearing on Bucky’s part.   
  
“Happy birthd-- you’re not sleeping, stop bein’ an asshole -- happy birthday!”  
  
    “The fake sleeping was for your delicate ego, Barnes,” Sam grinned as he sat up. Pawl, named in honour of Sam’s father (and spelled ‘P-a-w-l’ because Bucky Barnes had a garbage sense of humour,) was desperately trying to hop into the bed with Sam. Bucky took pity on her short legs, helping her up.   
  
“Heyyyy, baby Paulie!” Sam said, reaching to scratch behind her ears. He stopped short when he saw something shiny dangling from her collar. A plain silver ring.  
  
“Bucky.”  
  
    “Yeah?” Bucky’s eyes were glinting mischievously, but his arms were folded almost defensively.   
  
    “Is this what I think it is?”  
  
    “Yeah.”  
  
Sam carefully unwound the ribbon loosely looped through Pawl’s collar, feeling like his heart was going a mile a minute. He must have been quiet too long, because Bucky cleared his throat.   
  
    “She was supposed to beg. It was gonna be real cute. I’ve been training her.”  
  
Sam looked at their dog, who was more interested in chewing the string of Sam’s hoodie than anything else.  
  
    “Good job, babe.”  
  
    “Ha. Ha. Uhhh… so. Y’wanna get hitched or what?”  
  
    “Romantic.”  
  
    “Sure is.”  
  
    “Yeah, okay,” Sam said softly. Bucky blinked in genuine surprise.  
  
    “Yeah?”  
  
    “Uh-huh.”  
  
    “Seriously?”  
  
    “Why you so surprised?”  
  
    “I didn’t… really think this far.”  
  
    “You’re such a fuckin’ moron, Barnes.”  
  
    “I’m _your_ moron. And you just agreed to marry me, so now you’re gonna be _Mr_. Moron.”   
  
Sam wrinkled his nose because Bucky Barnes was a jerk, but he pulled Bucky in for a long kiss because he loved this jerk nonetheless. They didn’t need a ring or a piece of paper to say what they meant to each other, but Sam knew that his family would be overjoyed to have a wedding to fuss over, and--  
  
“Sam?”  
  
    “Hmm?” Sam was distracted by walking his fingers down Bucky’s stomach to the band of his sweatpants.  
  
    “I think the puppy ate the ring.”  
  
 _“What?!”_  
  
Pawl, misunderstanding their agitation, barked and wagged her tail excitedly. Sam chose to think of it as his father approving the union from beyond the grave, and there were worse places to spend his birthday than the vet’s office while the staff laughed themselves silly over the whole situation.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all, folks! thank :3


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